My buddy Mike grew out his beard over the last month or so to a commendable length. While saddened that he has decided to remove it from his face, I applaud him in his efforts to do so in pieces. The handle-bar mustachio he was supporting this week is well worth another week or seven to master.
I am convinced that my obsession with facial hair only stems from the fact that I can’t grow anything other than what I refer to as “The Chester,” which consists of two symmetrical, detached lines of hair that adorn my upper lip after a couple weeks sans razor. If I had a van without windows and some tight-rolled jeans I might consider it a more regular facial-follicle option.