Goddamn you society!
You think because I can’t grow a beard I’m not a man?
What luck, what blasted luck! To come of age when the lumberjack look creeps into vogue, as if to assassinate mine very chances with the fairer sex!
For centuries, a smooth, baby-like, pre-pubescent, milque-toast face like mine has been a luxury reserved for the well-to-dos who could afford the barber’s chair; but no more! Alas, now it is considered “cool” and “dope as fuck” and “silly dum-dum dopeass sweet” to wear a beard as bushy as the white house of the past three decades.
Despite these set-backs, I rest easy in the knowledge that, technically, I am a man. I have survived past eighteen years of age, and so the law grants me manhood. Indeed, simply my possession of an X-chromosome grants me the status of man according to the world of the scientist. Can I fix an engine? No. Do I have a great knowledge of sport? No. But these alone a man does not constitute.
I suppose in the final reckoning a great irony seizes upon me, as I realize that the very open-mindedness which creates the hairy-faced monsters whom I can never join, well that very open-mindedness also allows for somebody with interests outside of drinking, smoking, sports, gambling, and women to claim manhood with nary a snicker in the room! Forgive me my foolish rants, for now and then one must simply express one’s frustrations to see how truly futile they are.
Insecure Old-Timey Gentleman