Whiskers

This morning when I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, razor blade in hand, I got to thinking about my early 20s, when I had an extended - and possibly ill-advised - dalliance with facial hair. For a while my upper lip and shaving foam were strangers, and I fancied that I looked a bit like Tom Selleck. At other times, I opted for the full Monty, blatantly going out in public with a ginger beard. Unfortunately the hair on the top of my head is dark brown, so the beard made me look like an Amish farmer.
We all do daft things when we're young (or was it just me?), but occasionally I get to wondering what would happen if my razor went on strike and I just let it all sprout out again. Would it now be flecked with distinguished looking grey (there's no snow on the roof yet but that's no indication) or would I just look like a twat?
There have been periods in the past when growing impressive facial hair was a competitive sport (just look at almost any photograph of a Victorian gentleman), but I don't think I've ever met a woman who likes facial hair. Whiskers are essentially saying to the world's womenfolk 'hey, check out what I can grow, baby!' But like peahens underwhelmed by all those turquoise tails, the world's womenfolk remain resolutely unimpressed....