We're having a Beardathon at work. Well, by we I mean Editorial, Receptionist, Corvus and Contract. All came in clean shaven on February 1st with the aim of seeing who can grow the biggest beard by the end of the month. I'm thinking we should run a book and my money would be on Editorial - it would have been Contract but he succumbed on Day 3 and the sandpaper glint disappeared from his cheeks.
'I think he probably lives with a woman,' I said when Editorial bemoaned the fact that Contract had thrown in the hot towel.
'What do you mean? I live with a woman,' He replied indignantly. 'My mum loves my beard.'
You got it at mum, didn't you?
But are there really women apart from mothers who love beards? I assume there must be since my ex took his razor burn with him to the new woman when he left me. I wasn't sad to see it go because, despite Mrs Arafat telling me on very good authority that Yasser's beard didn't scratch (waste time on the PLO's mismanagement of millions when there's the important matter of physical intimacy to discuss - are you mad?) - scratching I can handle, it's the soft fluffy hairiness that I find sooooo wrong on so many levels..
And the way they stroke it.
We were talking about hair as a male attribute in the office the other day (waste time on literature when you there's the important matter etc...). 'I like bald men,' said one of the lithe young lovelies with flowing locks to her waist and a, presumably, hirsute Italian stallion tucked away in her weekends.
'Me too - but that's just as well, because after fifty you don't always have a lot of choice.' I said, authoritatively.
Well you do. But it's either that or hair gel.
Crispy hair gel.
That gets stuck in between your fingers if you try to run them through it, just before they jump back and yell: 'Don't touch the hair!'
