This week I grew a beard out of necessity; I cut my chin and cannot shave until the skin there heals. I’ve never been a beardy person, but it so happens that beards are very “now” in the five boroughs. Since acquiring the beard, this is what’s happened:
I don’t feel like a “David,” more like a “Ben” or a “Sam.”
I am overtaken by an urge to festoon my home with taxidermy.
I’ve been lost in reveries of reclaimed wood from old maritime chantries in rough parishes.
I’m keen to relocate to Sullivan County.
Lots of drainpipe trousers all of a sudden.
Lots of waistcoats, too. In tattersall and plaid.
No more Tanqueray or Maker’s Mark; now my cocktails are concocted with things like sloe gin and jenever.
I am compelled to make my own artisanal chocolate.