Do you have any of those traumatic childhood moments?
My dad spent a lot of my childhood in other places — Newfoundland, Ontario, Alberta, the Yellowknife . . . all over Canada.
He would be gone for three months at a time, coming home for a scant few weeks (and in the early years, it would be a matter of getting Mom knocked up and then taking off again . . . I’m a Christmas conception!).
As the story goes, one summer he came home with a full-face beard.
And I screamed and cried and screamed and cried and refused to let him in my . . . er, his . . . house.
From that point, I’ve had an aversion to facial hair on men.
I can remember being scared every time my Uncle Harold came to visit. Why? Because he had a big bushy mustache and I didn’t like it.
Fact is, I’ve never dated a guy with facial hair. Made out with one once . . . but I’ve never been attracted anyone but a clean-shaven man.
No soul patch.
No roguish goatee.
And tonight, I StumbleUpon the World Beard and Moustache (sic) Championship, a ‘a biennial event that features competition in a variety of categories that include everything from the delicate Dali moustache (sic) to the outrageous full beard freestyle.’
Did y’all know there are only 614 days left until the next big event in Trondheim, Norway?
Did y’all know the United States leads the charge with a total of 29 medals?
And Canada, home to your humble scribe, hauls up the rear end with one, just one, bronze?
I guarantee you one thing.
I won’t be there!