No, it’s not SF.c’s anniversary, or even the anniversary of my adoption into the SF.c gang; it’s a far more important date. On this day my beard is one year of age.
Yes, it’s been hard, and like any relationship ours has gone through its share of rough patches, but we’re still together after a year. It’s remarkable. A lot of people said it would never work.
We’re here to celebrate my beard. It’s a fine beard, really; a little thin around the edges, but strong and upstanding, moral and virtuous, where it really counts. It’s SF.c’s mascot, remember, and only the finest of folicle growths could possibly represent this finest of blogs.
On the first of August, in 2008, I shaved for the last time, so on the second my beard was born. No, it did not spring, fully-formed, from my brow, as legend says. It did not drag with it, into its existence on this lower plane, brimstone and clouds of fury, as the Hindu tradition has it. It was truly an American dream story, starting with a lot of itching and ending, as ordained, with righteous patriarchal power. Some say I look like Jesus. It is only right.
For the edification of those unblessed with personal experience, I provide pictures, both before and after the ascension of my face:
That is all.