We have now entered the home stretch of Movember. A mere five days lie between now and cool, clean-shaven elation. Despite the free burgers and the many kind donations that have poured in for this important cause, I will admit that the end cannot come soon enough.
It has been an interesting three weeks so far. The physical transformation has been more radical than anything I imagined, such is the ineffable power of facial hair. That, combined with a hat (and, occasionally, thick rimmed glasses) has made for a such a complete metamorphosis that close friends no longer recognise me on the street. It is as if I am a stranger to them; perhaps even to myself.
A few days ago, I had to take a passport photo and I almost returned it thinking it must have been a mistake. But of course, there was no mistake. It was, after all, a photo booth. Soon that photo will be printed in a visa or some other official document, destined to be inspected closely over the course of the coming months by some over-eager official either at Border Control or my local Cineworld. They say everyone gets 15 minutes of fame. Infamy, however, tends to last a little bit longer.
I can see it now, the photo hinting at a mysterious, almost criminal, past, bearing no similarity whatsoever to the shiny-smooth live specimen. And then the confusion, mixed with incredulity, spreading slowly over the hapless official's face. Perhaps finally I can use the Bob Dylan line I've always wanted to but never quite found the right moment for- You see, officer, I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.
And it will all be worth it.
PS: Please donate while you still can. Movember page, replete with stunning high-quality photographs, is here.
It has been an interesting three weeks so far. The physical transformation has been more radical than anything I imagined, such is the ineffable power of facial hair. That, combined with a hat (and, occasionally, thick rimmed glasses) has made for a such a complete metamorphosis that close friends no longer recognise me on the street. It is as if I am a stranger to them; perhaps even to myself.
A few days ago, I had to take a passport photo and I almost returned it thinking it must have been a mistake. But of course, there was no mistake. It was, after all, a photo booth. Soon that photo will be printed in a visa or some other official document, destined to be inspected closely over the course of the coming months by some over-eager official either at Border Control or my local Cineworld. They say everyone gets 15 minutes of fame. Infamy, however, tends to last a little bit longer.
I can see it now, the photo hinting at a mysterious, almost criminal, past, bearing no similarity whatsoever to the shiny-smooth live specimen. And then the confusion, mixed with incredulity, spreading slowly over the hapless official's face. Perhaps finally I can use the Bob Dylan line I've always wanted to but never quite found the right moment for- You see, officer, I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.
And it will all be worth it.
PS: Please donate while you still can. Movember page, replete with stunning high-quality photographs, is here.
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