To Give My Daughter's Future Husband a Chance...

The beard has a way of
making everything look better

--it's a great use of negative space.

And it feels better too

--at least to the one who owns

the stroking hand.

Beard, beard, how I love thee;

wonderful, wisening, whiskery accessory.

Here's hoping you get to stay awhile.

My wife is not very pleased with me right now. She never is when I make my once or twice yearly foray into bearded territory. I wrote the above lines of verse a couple of years ago when I managed to survive in "Beardland" for a few months. Ah, such a beautiful time, I recall it fondly.

A lot people--all of them women, by the way--give me grief whenever I grow a beard. Much of that grief relates to them knowing my wife's opinion of the facial hair. They think I am just being selfish to do something my wife isn't a big fan of. And they are right--to a point. But I have an ulterior motive too.

Someday, God-willing, my precious 5-year old Riley is going to meet a fine young man and want to get hitched. I have no idea who this whippersnapper is going to be but I'm already looking out for him. You see it's my theory that all of the women who do not like beards on their significant others, harbor their hirsute hatred because they either

1) had a clean-shaven Dad, or

2) did not have a Dad at all, or
3) were forced to listen to Kenny Rogers LP's as a child.

So, young man who probably doesn't even know my daughter exists yet, know that I am working for you! I am laying the groundwork for you to marry a woman who will accept the goatee, embrace the mutton chops, smile at the fu manchu, and lovingly nuzzle your beautiful beard.

I will accept your thanks in 20-30 years time, even if I continue to get none from my lovely, patient, long-suffering bride.