North Star Writers Group

I’ve always believed people should set goals for themselves and then strive to attain them. When I was a young man working as a newspaper reporter in Akron, Ohio, I made a list of things I wanted to do during my life. They included:

See the sun go down from Mallory Pier in Key West.
Read all of Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick”.
Find an inexpensive t-shirt that doesn’t shrink two sizes after one washing.
Win just one argument with my wife Sally.
Grow a beard.

Over the years I attained four of those five goals and two weeks ago I took steps to make it five. I decided to grow a beard. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve tried to cultivate facial hair plenty of times over the years. My goal was to have a beard that made me look like Ernest Hemingway, my favorite author. But whenever I dissed my razor, I always gave up the ghost midway through the second day for one reason or another.

This time I was determined not to be rebuffed.

“I’m going to grow a beard,” I declared to my wife Sally a couple of weeks ago.

“Oh, goodie,” she said, skillfully hiding the excitement she obviously felt for my newest venture.

Later that afternoon, I tried to explain my reasoning to her. “I know you’re upset,” I said, “but please don’t be angry with me because I want a beard. I’ve always wanted a beard. But I’ve never been brave enough to do it. I’m going to try again. Do you care?”

“Of course not,” she replied. “We all need goals in our lives. I admire your actions. Go for it.”

Then, after an ever-so-brief pause, she added, “If I decide to divorce you, do you want the compact car or the SUV?”

Undaunted, I didn¹t shave that evening or the next day.

On the morning of Day Three, I noticed gray whiskers on my cheeks. There were four of them.

“Oh, yeah, babe!” I exclaimed in my best Emeril Lagasse voice and headed off to work again.

By Day Four, my fledgling beard was much more visible.

“What do you think?” I asked Sally when I got home from work that afternoon. “Be honest. Do you think I’m beginning to look at least a little bit like Ernest Hemingway?”

She gave me one of her famous don’t-expect-to-get-any-dinner-tonight looks and said. “I think what you are beginning to look like does indeed start with the letter “H”, but the word I’m thinking of certainly isn’t Hemingway.”

On Day Five, others began to notice my new macho look.

“Jeez, Batzie, did you tie one on last night or what?” a co-worker wanted to know.

Another asked, “Lose your razor?”

Ten times that day I slipped into the restroom to check the hairs on my chinny-chin chin and each time I was thrilled with the look. Finally, after all those years, I was doing it. I was still elated as I walked to my car after work that afternoon.

I imagined everybody was looking at me and admiring my new look, so I greeted each passerby (even total strangers) with a smile and a friendly hello.

Then, as I was unlocking my car door, a disheveled-looking man approached. His clothes were dingy; his shoes had holes in them. He was wearing a jacket much too light for the coldness of the day.

“He’s obviously homeless,” I told myself, and when he drew even with me I reached into my pocket for some spare change I was pretty sure he would ask me for. That’s when he stopped, dug into his own pocket, handed me a quarter, smiled and walked away.

I shaved as soon as I got home.

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This is Column # BB49. Request permission to publish here.