On the bus today, a mustachioed woman sat next to me and, very craftily, somehow wound her way from discussing the moral-deficiency of bus drivers to her own suffering under the employment of a nun. She bristled (ha!) at the thought of a sinful nun demanding clerical work of her. However, all was well in the end because the priest of the order told the bearded lady that the nun in question had committed mortal sin. Thus, the fuzzy female was confident that her nemesis will meet her justice in the the end.
Meanwhile, on another planet, I decided I don't like coleslaw on sandwiches. Older women on buses require very little encouragement, so I had sometime for my own thoughts.
I hope I never grow a beard. I'm currently writing an essay on Ronald Dworkin's theory of rights, in which rights are trumps to the concept of liberty (blargh, blah, bullshit). Parallel thought: beards are trumps to women's beauty, unless you like that sort of thing.
I remember when I was small my friend Chris would always ask his mom if she would still love him if he were a worm. Mom, would you still love me if I had a beard? Be honest.
HALT. Fleet Foxes just came on in Starbucks. That'll do, pig.