Yesterday I gave notice at my day job. I’ve been flipping books there for seven years and I have a lot of great memories and I now know far more about the book industry than I really wanted to. The real question is what do I do with myself now?
I’ve always had a strained relationship with beards, and facial hair in general. I don’t grow much facial hair, barely being able to muster a mustache, but with no hope of growing a beard beyond a pathetic goatee. I can’t even grow sideburns of any substance. Sometimes this makes me sad, even to the point of being a little insecure about my machismo. I endeavored to grow a mustache during Movember, but the resulting stache was rather weak.
Ever since I moved up here to Little Bay Root, I’ve been surrounded by facial hair. Beards are everywhere up here: bushy lumberjack beards, long braided goats, porn-tastic mutton chops. Myself, I’ve always been a bit challenged in the facial hair department, but Movember rolled around and I decided to try my hand at farming a mustache.
There are a lot of cultural differences here in the rainy northwest that I had to get used to after I fled the sunshine state. The hardest for me to swallow has been the ironic fashion. The hip cats here seem to revel in wearing ugly clothes that are neither flattering nor fashionable.