Andrew J. Lederer

that a scraggly beard doesn't really work with dressy clothes.

unfortunately, i was afraid to trim the beard, 'cause that often makes things worse.

so, i fussed with it, attempting to pat it into perfection.

but that only amplified the scraggle.

which might have worked had i worn a hat, but the hat wasn't dressy enough. (plus i looked a little orthodox to begin with -- for god's sake, my father kept referring to me as the rabbi.)

on top of that, my linen pants and shiny shirt worked well together, but not with my jacket, which should have matched the linen's looseness but was instead tight and formal. (and too small to boot).

so, i took the jacket off and hung it over my arm.

immediately becoming self-conscious about the fatness jacketlessness conveyed.

a self-consciousness not helped by the fact that my belt didn't seem to have a hole that would create a waistline i could maintain. (either the trousers slipped or the belt was too tight.)

so, i looked sloppy or clueless, except when returning from a readjustment trip to the rest room.

which, of course, caused an insecure stiffness that hid whatever catlike fluidity i might have had and, with my residual gout, prevented me from taking to the dance floor, a wallflowerish omission everybody seemed to have noticed.

boy, i sure showed 'em when i decided not to shave off that beard.

if i'd been clean shaven, i might have looked and felt beautiful at this family affair where i was judged by so many, establishing a character in their minds that will persist until the next affair, which could be a long time away.

if i hadn't showed up in that beard, there might have been no ill-judgments.

but i'd have remembered that girl who dismissed me as meaningless; who probably wouldn't have done so had i been clean cut.

and though i'd have been favorably assessed by my fellow revelers, i'd have known there might be dismissive, ugliness in their hearts.

better, perhaps, to have suffered the indignities of the beard.