No beards please, we're British
"Is it a beard? Is it a plane..?"Ever since anti-terror legislation formally outlawed facial hair in the UK, I have been accosted by an increasing number of total strangers in bars and pubs, most of whom are curious to know whether the hair on my face is real, or just a stag party costume accessory which also came with a horned helmet and shield.
Most often this happens immediately after one's beard mysteriously makes contact with the rich, creamy froth of one's pint of Rev. James, creating an impression of archaic wisdom, impaired co-ordination, quixotic stoogery and geriatric complacence, all magnificently rolled into one.
On these occasions, I am often asked positively ludicrous questions, such as: how long have you had your beard? (To which the answer, of course, is "7mm".) How long did it take for all the bald patches to converge? (They don't always: if you look closely, you will see still a single, distinct, hairless oasis of skin in the middle of both my cheeks.) And... doesn't it itch after a while? (Well, of course it does. Why else do you think I have to keep dipping it in beer all the time?)
Besides: to no avail do I inform my quintessentially hairless interrogators that beards are nothing but a perfectly natural consequence of failure to ever shave one's face. And that they, too, could have facial hair like mine, if they just threw away their razors and shaving foam, grew a pair of testicles, and switched from shitty lager to a real man's drink... like proper ale, or dark rum and engine oil.
But no, they reply. British people are genetically incapable of growing beards. And even if they could, they would automatically be considered Moslems by the rest of the community, and therefore never invited to join the Sunday school choir again.
To which all I can say is: too beard...
