I’ve been in a bit of a funk of late. It’s mostly the normal time-of-year stuff but I’ve been feeling sorry for myself about other things too. My 12-month contract job – which I’ve loved and really hoped would lead to a permanent role – is coming to an end next month and I’ve been fretting about the prospect of being unemployed if I don’t find something else soon. We also want to move house this year and that’s not without its stresses either. Oh, and the weather. Need I say more? All of these gripes and several other first world problems had combined to make me rather glum. I was listening to The Smiths rather too much which is never a good sign and, most alarmingly, I was starting to look like Rasputin. Yes, my internal feelings of despair were manifesting themselves externally in beard form.
Sadly, I had become a proper cliché. Mercifully, I hadn’t got to the point of not getting out of my dressing gown, neglecting to open the curtains or drinking milk from the bottle, but the beard of despair was bad and in danger of getting out of hand. Having completed Movember and dutifully shaved off the result on 1 December, I hadn’t bothered done so again since. I may as well have participated in Decembeard too. Although it looked cool for a little while, it was starting to get unruly and was encroaching on my face and neck like bindweed.
Something had to be done – and no, Dr Freud, I’m not just talking about the fact that I was starting to look like Teen Wolf – so I decided to take action yesterday. I broke out the clippers of salvation and, following a brief battle with the follicles of adversity, the beard of despair had been confined to the bin of banishment. The jaws of destiny and the chin of optimism had been restored.
Of course, becoming a little less hirsute isn’t going to solve all my problems, but it’s a start – albeit a trite, symbolic one. From now on, I’m going to be positive about things. I’m going to continue to apply for jobs and find one that’s good enough for me. I’m not going to sell myself short by going for something easy either. Nope. I want a challenge I can excel in. We will sell our house and buy a new one and we will get Xander sleeping through the night and Dylan eating something other than fish fingers. So there.
Yes, beard of despair, you have been handed your hairy arse in a bag. I’m fresh faced and ready to start winning again. So, go on, off you fuck. I now have my standard level of stubble and clearly defined sideburns. I’m back, baby.