Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo hasn’t bothered to shave since coronapalooza relegated him to permanent/temporary telework status and public Mass has been suspended.

The last time I started a beard was last year’s gubmint shutdown.  It turned out to be pretty scraggly, as I have rather thin hair, and I became so concerned that I shaved it off long before going back to work.

This time, I find myself not really caring.  So I’ll just let it go and see what happens.

The growth was noticed and commented on at dinner this evening.

Youngest, as many friends of the decanter will know, is a high school senior.  As you all also probably know, this afternoon Virginny’s Kommisar Northam shuttered the Commonwealth’s schools for the balance of the year.   What, exactly, is going to happen to seniors such as Youngest has yet to be decided, but staring at Ol’ Robbo’s fuzzy chin meditatively, she suddenly had an idea.

“Hey,” she said, “I think I’m going to die my hair purple while I’m at home! You know, just for kicks! I can always wash it out if and when they call us back! Yuck, yuck!”

There’s not a lot of genuine rebellious, daddy-issue lashing out amongst the Gels, laus Deo.  There is, on the other hand, a certain amount of playing the Get A Rise Out Of The Old Man game.  They all seem to know exactly which buttons to press, and delight when something starts me frothing.

I’m a moderately old dog and these are summat recent tricks, but I like to think I’m learning nonetheless.

I gave Youngest a cool, thin smile.

“Yeah,” I said, “That’s not a good idea.”

And I said no more.

Will she do it? I dunno.  But she’s not going to have the satisfaction of getting a rise out of Ol’ Robbo.

UPDATE:  She did it.