Though I debated calling this "The French T," Ella preferred that I just call it "The T," so I defer to the five year-old wisdom of it all. After all, if this is not a childish pursuit, what is it?Perhaps I could attempt to fit in on a college campus with this look. A scholarly bite-back at all those years I did not possess the capacity for facial hair during my undergraduate matriculation. I could lease a thrift-store tweed jacket--elbow patches mandatory--and head off to the nearest institution of higher learning. Pedal about the grounds on an old-school bicycle, one pant-leg jacked-up to avoid chain grease. Upon reaching my destination, I could shed my shoes and socks (I will not be confined by the shackles of man) and settle in to read a philosophical tome. But only if I sat directly in the sun--jacket still on--never breaking a sweat.
But, I digress....
The T only gained notice on Monday, as my students gathered around me for a read-aloud and one inquired, "Did you shave again?" To which another replied, "Yeah, he shaves every week, didn't you know this already?" (He, of course, just discovered this last week, but such is the rubbing-the-dog's-face-in-excrement way of elementary school.) After that, The T faded into beard obscurity, along with the nameless other beards I have sported over the years. I suppose next week calls for a big change.
No comments:
Post a Comment