a midway bikelog

I’m walking the dog, and she’s getting grey and slow and i wonder how many walks we have left. Sure, she’ll chase a squirrel and a bird and a rabbit if she sees it, but between those adventures she’s dragging and lingering, digging her nose through the bushes and leaves on the ground.

The neighborhood looks natty and fresh today. Everyone’s out, getting yards raked and roofs patched and gardens put to bed and though few people painted their houses this year they all look freshly done. There’s something about the soft, warm light of a November late afternoon that makes everything look a little better than it is.

We had dogs when i was a kid, but i don’t remember being all that attached to them. It seemed like they didn’t last long, getting run over down by the highway or we’d move again or something. But then, even though the losses would be sad, maybe it wasn’t all that short a time and i just always spent my days on other things instead. I remember a lot more about the books i read and projects i built than the time spent with my dogs.

I got Greta in the breakup, not exactly my choice, but i couldn’t just send her away. She was never really my dog, but the kids love her so and i have to admit that every once in a while, a vanishingly small percentage of the time, i’m happy that she has such a great bark. I’m still not much of a dog person, but a deal’s a deal, and we’ve both got that loyalty thing going for us, so we get along just fine she and i.

It was a busy weekend of house projects, but i’d promised her a walk today. I put her off for just a bit longer for a quick bike ride while the sun was still up because i wanted to use up an old roll of film. The shadows were long but the sky was still bright and i don’t often get to stop and just see. My grandpa’s old camera is perfect for days like this, having to meter and knobfiddle and consider before shooting. I found a old empty pond with a little stone bridge and leaves where the fish and the water would be, and skipped walking the labyrinth because i’d already done my meditation on the ground glass of the camera’s viewfinder.

When I got back to the house, we went right on out and she danced her way down the walk. She’s too big a dog to jump (and she’s old), so her version of dancing around looks mostly like someone trying to clap between pushups. So many days the walk is squeezed in, or done mostly out of guilt, but today was something different. The coming of winter, seeing her weight loss over the last year, catching that tripped step out of the corner of my eye. It’s easier to forgive the poorly-timed and sudden barks, the endless shadowing me around the house. Maybe even the slightly higher rate of puddles on the floor.

There’s something about the soft, warm light of a November late afternoon.

So winter is coming, and you’ve decided to grow a beard. Congratulations! Here’s what you have to look forward to:

1. The new beard itch. Starting a new beard when you’ve been clean-shaven for a while is itchy. A few days you’ll be fine. A week after that and your boss will quit making stupid remarks about you looking like you’ve been on a bender. Never mind, he’s jealous because his wife made him shave his ugly ’stache.

2. The neckbeard. This is the first decision point for your new beard: let it go full native or shave that neck hair. If you aren’t using some flavor of Linux/Unix as your daily computer, you’ll probably be shaving it. If you commit to the neckbeard, know that you’re in for a couple of weeks during which you’ll want to tear out your own throat about 30 times per day. And get questions about sendmail.cf.

3. What shape? Is this going to be a full Grizzly Adams Zach Galifinakis, or the moderniste goatee? Mutton chops? Your hirsutability is the primary factor: if you have a sparse wasteland across each cheek, stick with the Maynard G. Krebs, though really, if you can’t grow a decent mustache just keep shaving and try again later, junior.

4. If you aren’t going all world champion beard on us, you gotta trim that thing at some point. When it’s scraggly-looking? When you get mustache hairs in your mouth? When it gets caught in a zipper? You’ll find your tolerance point. Or it will be defined for you by the person you kiss. Will you be tidy about it, or let it start collecting twigs and bits of soup? Just beware that if you really let it go, you will become a magnet for re-enactment troupes and gifts of mustache wax.

5. Finally, you have to decide when it’s been enough already. You’ll get tired of trimming it, or maybe tired of botching the trimming job because you’re too cheap to buy a proper trimmer, you cheap bastard. Or maybe you’ll hold a baby who is just learning to make a fist and grab things within reach. Or your lover will complain that it’s scratchy, or about seeing bits of soup in there, or you’ll get a bad case of the dreaded beardruff. It’s time to mow that thing down and embrace the cool breeze on your chin once more. This is the also time to really explore the full range of beard styles that you were too chickenshit to try back at step 3.

* Note: “hirsutability” is a Googlewhack. You’re welcome.