I’ve made a momentous decision…

Like all momentous decisions, the actual decision itself was only taken after heavy consultation with my good friends Mr Whisky and Mr Not-Bad-Red-For-About-Five-Pounds. The latter friend sets the framework, discusses options, maps out different scenarios. The former (Mr Whisky) is the closer of the group. The decision maker. He shoots. He scores. He can’t help but decide. He cannot - and will not - sit on the fence.

Yesterday, my aforementioned good friends and I, decided that we’d had enough of moustaches. That they were ridiculous and unsuitable. But we went further than that. We were done with facial hair in its entirety.

That is a momentous decision.

For the last four years I’ve been constantly with a beard. See Tim. See facial hair. Close cropped beard. Full beard. Scruffy beard. Tidy beard. Goatee beard. I’ve distrusted clean shavenness. I’m dubious about soft pink skin on my face. To shave is like, so 2004. Or something.

But last night the razor came out. The shaving cream was applied. Bold strokes and nimble blade work swept from ear to ear. The moustache was no more. The last stand of facial hair had been wiped out and sent down the plug hole.

And so I braved the Lake District weather today, naked of face. The slings and arrows of outrageous weather whacked my newly shorn visage as I mounted Cat Bells. Didn’t feel a thing.

So we’re left with; does it suit me? Does the clean shaven look knock years off me? Make me look younger and more vital?

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Makes me look fatter though and my bottled friends are agreeing with me on this point right now.

What do you think?

Clean shaven in front of Lodore Falls. Cheeks sucked in. Allegedly.