Ampersand Duck too

This long post is a love letter to Rebecca Solnit. I love all of her writing, but A Field Guide to Getting Lost (Penguin, 2005) has been -- and I'm aware of the irony-- a wayfinder for me. Particularly the introductory essay to the book, 'Open Door' [1-25]. 1. Quiet aloneness Lockdown, for me, was never 'locked away'. I have enjoyed the break from real-life social activity, which, I must admit, stresses me quite a bit. If you have never worked out that I'm a social introvert, this is the proof. At the beginning, my night walks were born of frustration . Like many others, I was sitting for long hours at my desk, and needing more than just standing to cook elaborate meals (I did plenty of that). Living with someone that I'd only just met before lockdown was stressful too. So I just needed to get out into the evening, into the fresh air. I invested in some tracksuit bottoms so that I'd pass for someone trying to exercise, when actually all I wanted to find

Yesterday, my iso-beard felt normal. It wasn't itching, or catching on my scarf, it was just... there. So I called it: this is the day it has to go .  When I started , this is what I asked myself:  I'm so curious. Can I stand it? This might be my only chance to see what shape my chin-line is: am I full and shaggy or scrappy and wispy? There's so much beard action out there, shall I take this on as a feminist body-image art project or just a chance to give up my last act of conscientious grooming? I thought about this a lot. I'm not a very hairy person, and the stuff I do have is like baby-hair: soft and fine. So scrappy and wispy was the bet.  Actually, it surprised me. There were two distinct patches on either side of my chin that grew sort of coarse, curly and thick --  not total coverage like a man's beard, but distinctly beard-like, more so than the bum-fluff my son got at puberty. The hairs were annoying, and itchy, and I stroked them a lot as if to keep them c