Anyway, whilst I have my hair cut once a month, I've noticed my beard grows much faster and needs cutting more frequently. Geoffrey Fordesque-Smythe, our gardener, has left me a pair of shears, or secateurs, for me to attend to the beard.
The other day I tripped on my beard and fell down the stairs. My wife asked me, "did you miss a step?"
"No," I replied, "I hit every one of them!"
As I got off the bus last week, the sliding door shut too quickly and trapped my beard. I was dragged half a mile to the next bus stop. The driver refused to give me a refund for taking me beyond my scheduled stop. In fact he insisted that I pay him extra. When I refused, he called the police. The police officer said we were splitting hairs and told us to calm down.
As I was confessing this particular sin of losing my temper on Saturday, the priest suddenly ran out of the confessional as my beard slipped under the door and he thought it was a furry creature. As I ran after him trying to disabuse him of his particular mistake and unwarranted panic, sadly, an old lady stepped on my beard and fell to the ground revealing her Victorian underwear.
She was mortified, embarrassed and humiliated in no particular order; yet the combination of which led her to write to the Bishop complaining and seeking some form or restitution. Perhaps more lenient penances at future confessions.
The Bishop, who is young and clean-shaven, did not believe her story and demanded a photo of me and my beard as evidence. I refused to share what I consider to be a very personal possession. I think this Bishop will have a hard time entering Heaven when he meets the bearded St Peter and his namesake, St Thomas, who was also bearded too. As well as St Paul and some other disciples no doubt.