God bless you, spellchecker. Without your help, I would never be able to spell occasionally, accommodate, necessary or recommend.

A good friend of mine here in the city grew up in a very orthodox Jewish community, which disallowed mixed dancing (i.e. women dancing with men); as a result, she never picked up even the most rudimentary ballroom dance skills – a distressing inability, considering how frequently her job as an assistant curator at the Met requires her presence at gala openings, fundraiser balls, and other society events. Certainly, Manhattan is full of fine ballroom dance academies ready to remedy such a situation; yet most require students to sign up for group classes in partnered pairs, to cover for the fact that, while women appear to be lining up for admission, the number of straight guys in the city who might sign up for such classes on their own accord could be counted on one hand.

To make a long story short, then, when she stepped onto the floor of Dance New York yesterday evening, it was with me, sucker friend number one, in tow. At least, I consoled myself, I’d previously picked up a small amount of ballroom experience, through a short class while at Yale, an ex-girlfriend who was heavily into the late nineties’ swing revival, and a mother (serious enough about waltzing to head intermittently to Vienna with my father to dance at the Royal and Opera Balls) who would occasionally drag my seven-year old self down the hall to strains of Strauss. Still, by the start of last night’s class, I could barely remember the basic steps of the various dances, much less perform any well enough to use side by side with royalty (or even anyone with two opposing feet).

By the end of the evening, however, two partners I danced with asked if I was an instructor, and one of the instructors asked if I’d ever considered competing. On the one hand, I was thrilled and flattered – a natural talent discovered! On the other, I was completely appalled. Ballroom dance? So far as I was concerned, it might as well have been natural talent for interior design or hair styling. Why couldn’t I suddenly discover a knack for 100 mile per hour fastballs, I wondered, or a surprising ability (considering my limited height and exceeding whiteness) to dunk with Jordan-esque panache?

Sometimes, life is so tragically unfair.

Two days back, spending several hours too many catching waves and practicing longboard tricks (nota bene: the classic headstand-on-board can cause serious board-wax-in-hair), I managed to pick up the best sunburn I’ve had in years, a burn that carried well past lobster red and deep into fire-engine. Flying home today, however, some 48 hours later, I barely look pink.

For whatever reason, I’ve always been an unusually fast healer. At a one week post-op checkup after some minor surgery a few years back, for example, the surgeon literally had to check his files against his appointment calendar to convince himself that he had really sliced and diced just one week prior – the scar, he said, appeared to have been healing for nearly a month.

Sure, I’m grateful for that quick-fix abilitiy – given the frequently injurious nature of full-contact martial arts, it’s one I often put to good use. But, taken together with a fast metabolism (two hours after a big dinner and I’m ready to repeat the meal), it makes me worry about how long my body can keep up the pace. If all my cells are sprinting along, how will they ever be able to stick around for the marathon of a life I’ve got planned?

Having arrived earlier this afternoon in Hawaii (or, more specifically, on the southwest coast of Maui), I’ve by now had chance to reconfirm at least one highly functional life skill – within seconds of entering, I can consistently and precisely estimate a hot tub’s temperature, to the exact degree. Impressive, sure, but that’s just the sort of ability you can hone if you’re willing to subject yourself to the hard work of years and years of vacationing on tropical islands across the globe.

From the consensus of both digital and analog friends, I realized unequivocally that the beard had to go – at least temporarily.

Still, fearing withdrawal pains, I decided I’d best ease my way out of the world of facial hair. Hence shaving partially, yet leaving something so horrendous that after a couple of days I’d be rarin’ for the chance to hack off the rest.

The resulting final product combines the Fu Manchu of Ben Stiller’s nursing home orderly in Happy Gilmore with a standard beret-and-bongos soul patch. Like, dig, man:

On my way to lunch, sporting the new look, I’m pretty sure I saw at least one person point and laugh.

Update

According to several sources, the Fu Manchu / soul patch combo was treading too close to goatee territory, clearly the nadir of cool (hipster or otherwise). Therefore, I have reductively switched to child molester mustache, leaving me looking like (by varying accounts) either the policeman from the Village People or the lost Mario Brother:

Update 2

Sooner than expected, I’m back to clean-shaven, as my Cyan colleagues Yoav and Colin refused to hold this afternoon’s budget and casting meeting with me still sporting the thoroughly ridiculous mustache.

Completely hairless, my face feels oddly naked.

On my Uncle David’s exceedingly kind invite, spent yesterday making a travesty of eighteen holes of golf out on Long Island. The weather was dismal when we set out, so I embarked sans sunscreen and returned having burned on the World’s Greatest T-Shirt Tan.

Frankly, I think I’ve found my new look.

I’m not going to lie. At 23, I still find poop jokes wildly entertaining.

Because I would so totally dress my kid in this for Halloween.