I’m a beard guy—or, as some of us prefer to be called, “whiskered-American.”
And I have been for decades, long before the metrosexuals went lumbersexual. Back in New York, circa 2000, nightclub doormen routinely negged me. Once, while I sat on the stoop of my apartment building sipping coffee, a woman walked by and dropped a fistful of change into my cup. Not only was this insulting; it ruined a perfectly good mocha.