Stress

Dad’s beard was a little more salt than pepper.  The hair on top of dad’s head was a little more pepper than salt.

Each patch on Dad’s head was affectionately named after one of the three girls.  The patches grayed more or less – depending on what antics my sisters and I got up to.  Sometimes they stayed gray, sometimes they grew back dark.

I’m glad I don’t have a beard.  Instead, I’ve shown stress in another way – a massive breakout.  Each bright red pimple that has erupted from my face tells another story.  I’ve started dishing out the responsibility – claiming to know what each one represents.  And what if they don’t go away? Does the mean I’m uncurable? And what if they do?  Does that mean I’m fixed.

You know, it’s time like this that really make me wish I could grow a beard.  Then I would at least be able to hide something.