Less-amnesiac readers might recall that last summer I attempted to change what I think is the one and only thing that makes me look old, the color of my beard. My wife Abby wasn’t terribly happy about it, blaming the chosen color as too dark, though it is entirely possible that she wasn’t quite ready for such a change.
Fast forward about ten months, and at her suggestion, we try again. Softening the blows of insecurity was the fact that she was helping pick the color. Her stylist cut my hair, then sent me to the strip mall to get the tools of the trade. The rest was easy, and had an eery similarity to my days gone by of processing film. Dilute the chemicals one way for a certain look, another for a different look, and let the whole thing develop at one pace for one result, and another for a different result.
The result shall be judged in the court of public opinion tomorrow.