Adventures with my beard

My father's Italian ancestry has blessed and cursed me with a thick, coarse, dark beard; the kind of beard that requires constant shaving, snipping and plucking to keep me from becoming something akin to "an American werewolf in China". However, without my properly named Mr Scruffy I am convinced my life would be much duller than it is.

Most of the time, back home in the States, my five o'clock shadow was of little concern. After all, most men had one, but in China it is a different story. It is not my skin or eyes that draw the most attention; it's my beard.

Even though Beijing is a cosmopolitan city, on many occasions while riding the subway I look up from my book to find a passenger staring directly at my face. "Maybe they are looking at my blue eyes," I think to myself. But no, as I slowly turn to inspect their gaze, I once again find that it falls squarely on the hairs of my chin.