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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Last evening Eldest was possessed with the idea of taking a pic of Ol’ Robbo’s plague beard and sending it to her cousins for some lulz.

They immediately sent back a snap of my brother, who’s been growing one as well.

A little over three weeks in, my beard still hasn’t achieved mature status, but is still somewhat at the straggly stage.  (Indeed, it’s possible I’ll never get past this, as I have thin, fine hair, a genetic legacy from the Mothe.)  Also, it’s a sort of grizzled ginger on my cheeks and lip, shading down to something close to white round my chin and under my jaw line.

In contrast, my brother’s jowls look like they’re covered in shag carpet.  Granted, he’s been at it for a couple months now, and he’s always had thicker hair than me.  But I notice his face furniture is darker in color than anything I’ve ever seen on top of his head, and he’s only two years younger than me.  I’m not saying he’s artificially enhanced it, but I’m not saying he hasn’t, either.

Well of course I can’t let him top me, as that would violate the fundamental Order of the Universe.  So I will just have to soldier on.  (Without any dye, mind you.  Ol’ Robbo considers hiding gray hair a mark of unbecoming vanity.)

At least we ought to amuse the kids.

UPDATE:  Of course, I should have said that the X-factor in all of this is Mrs. Robbo.  If Mamma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

She hasn’t offered any criticism yet, but I’ve caught her giving me the side-eye a couple of times.

In fact, she did so yesterday while we were walking the doggeh.  I said, “You know, I’ll shave the thing off if it’s bugging you.”

“Oh, no, no,” she replied.  “Do whatever you want.”

Mmmmmm-hmmmm….

Ol’ Robbo has sufficient experience of marital bliss to know exactly how much that is worth, so stand by.

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