Beard Envy

Ok, here's where I cop to having a major case of beard envy. Most of the dads of the children Caroline plays with can grow these spectactular beards. This is especially true of the ones who have lived in upstate New York the longest. Here's a sample conversation I might have with a dad picking up his children from our day-care co-op.

(North Country Man arrives, sporting three inches of beard below his chin.)

Me: Hey, didn't you shave your beard this morning?

North Country Man: Yeah, but I skipped my afternoon shave because I was too busy building an addition on my house using only trees I felled myself and rock hewn lovingly from mother earth by my own hand.

Me: Oh, yes, that must be why you are still wearing your tool belt, laden with long dangling implements.

North Country Man: Are you going to stare at my tools or let me in?

Me: Oh yes, come in. Your numerous and eerily self sufficient children are in the play room.

North Country Man: Moonbat, Mountain, Bench, come here! We have to go split wood for the winter! By the way, Rob, have you seen my knife, or my compass, or any of the other outdoorsy stuff I not only carry around with me everywhere but actually find occasion to use almost every day?

Me: Yes, you left them out back while you were teaching the children to identify signs of global warming in moose scat.

I wish I could grow a beard. I bet I would look good with a beard.