The afternoon of the dinner, I stood in my bathroom, razor in hand, staring at my reflection. My beard had been with me since Vietnam. Cutting it felt like erasing part of my history.
With a deep breath, I began trimming it back – not off completely, but neat and short enough to look “respectable.” I covered my visible tattoos with a long-sleeve shirt despite the summer heat and left my rings at home except for my silver Thunder Road MC ring, which I couldn’t bring myself to remove. Some commitments run too deep.
James picked me up at six, his approval evident when he saw me.
“You look great, Dad. Really… different.”
Different. Not better. Just different. Like a tiger with its teeth filed down to make it safe for a petting zoo.
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