Toast for Brekkie

Beardtober

I did something yesterday that I haven't done in nearly four years: I shaved my lower lip. This is the first time since grad school that I haven't sported a soul patch, goatee, sideburns or full beard. Why the sudden change, you ask? Do I finally have enough wrinkles to pass for over 18 at the movie theater? Did I want to be more aerodynamic for the 10K skate this afternoon? While both of these are marginally true, I shaved last night to become a tardy entrant in my latest competition: Beardtober.

"What the crap?" you say? Well, have you ever heard of the World Beard Championships? It's sort of like that, except for men who have no hope of ever growing a full, contiguous beard. Call it a Special Olympics of facial hair. I might be wrong, but I think the idea is to see who has the best beard at the end of the month, to coincide with the handlebar-sporting, lederhosen antics of Oktoberfest. Except that Oktoberfest is going on right now, at the beginning of the month. You'll have to ask my friend Timmy. He's the one who came up with it.

The strange thing, aside from seeing how white my cheeks have become, is realizing how often I stroke my soul patch. I'll be thinking hard about a math problem or how to phrase an idea, then reach for my chin only to come up empty-handed. After the competition, I may shave the beard off again, but I think the Cadillac is here to stay.