We’d needed a rest day, however impromptu. Chance to dry out wet tents and damp kit. And have a shave. My feeble attempts at growing a beard were no more. Actually, it resembled little more than a few days stubble, but was still uncomfortable to remove with a razor. I’m sure it would have blossomed, but I’d decided the Yukon look probably wasn’t quite me. It had to go.
In the past there’d been strict rules for this sort of thing. No beards. And always making a point of never dating a woman with one. Just like poor lip-synching, I find it a bit off-putting. Under-arm hair I can live with. Quite like the French.
