(Surprised voice) "Oh my god, you look so good! I didn't recognize you since you shaved off your (visible shiver, eyes rolled back in head) beard. Because NOW you look good! Since you FINALLY shave off that (simulated dry-heave) beard!"

That was from the Korean lady at the liquor store down the street. I believe it was the first time she'd spoken to me.

Shaving seemed to signal open season on the old beard, and the extent of hitherto-suppressed collective-female disfavor was overwhelming. It was as if I'd had a malignant tumor removed. A tumor I'd willfully cultivated and proudly kept on public display.

What you ladies totally failed to appreciate, I think, was the stylistic versatility of my beard. Whether I was in the suit pictured below, raising a flute of champagne, or in my oily sou'wester, wielding bloody harpoon...whether I was delivering an emancipation proclamation, or a batch of meth to some buddies up in Sturgis- that beard was the perfect facial accessory.

PS that photo (as the harsh fluorescent lighting and my bleary, alcohol-flushed, countenance might suggest) was taken at a Las Vegas banquet hall wedding. A loveless environment, for real; but when Whitney Houston started singing out of that little boom box you see there behind my head, and the bride and her teary papa marched in, the gravity and beauty of the occasion overcame the setting and the mood shifted from depressing to comfortably surreal. My beard, of course, was both.