Francis Yount the Third fell in love with his beard. It wasn’t something he was planning on. He was not planning on having a beard. One day there it was. Obviously it took more than one day to come into existence but it was a singular day the second week of October when it stopped being maverick stubble. A beard at an early-in-life stage can, to some susceptible, be a provocation. Are you man enough to join the lineage of Moses and Santa Claus and John Brown of Kansas. Are you? It puts you on the spot.
For Francis Yount III that was not the question to answer. His beard was asking something else entirely. It was asking what it could do for Francis. Francis looked at it for what it was, a new arrival that would take some getting used to. It was very white, surprisingly white considering he still had a mop of mostly black hair.
The excessive whiteness was a sour note and so Francis, not someone to tolerate sour notes, made an appointment at the salon.
What did he want? He was undecided when he finally got in, and Rodolfo has no patience for hemming and hawing. Especially when you beg for an appointment like its an emergency.
Rodolfo ran some photos by him. One stood out, a geometric beard corrugated like Nebuchadnezzar’s. Well yes, that was the look he was looking for. Radical. They decided to wimp out with the dye; just some black to match Francis’s manly mop.
Francis fell into one of those delicious barber chair sleeps. It was magical. A carpet ride. A glide in the current, balm and bliss, and then he was yanked out it. Rodolfo was escorting him from the chair, another customer waiting.
The mirror behind the receptionist’s desk gave him his first good look at his new beard. It ended his love affair with his beard. A beard like that would cut off your head in your sleep. It was something he’d have to keep placating to keep happy. He camouflaged his thoughts of shaving lest the beard get wind of them.