Où la barbe rouge grandit / Where the red beard grows


It was hard to leave San Francisco for many reasons, but one of those reasons is because the city is filled to the brim with crimson beards. Maybe it's the whole hipster/hippie vibe, so there are more beards in general, but I used to encounter at least a handful a day. Sometimes when I would spot one, I'd just let him go. Perhaps I was in a hurry, or he was, or it was clear it would be an awkward sitch if I were to ask for a photo. But some strangers had to be stopped, for their beards were just too good to pass up. This man was one of those types.

My buddy Matt League was in town, so I was already in a happier mood than usual. I believe Matt wishes he had a beard of rouge, but his beard is composed of many colors, red, gray, blonde, etc. Anyway, we were tromping through the Mission en route to a bar called The Sycamore, known for its bottomless mimosas and chill back patio. When we passed the redbeard, Matt and I made eye contact. He gave an eyebrow raise and a slow nod, which I read as, "Wooo, that was a good one." I knew I had to act quickly or the beard would escape, so I doubled back and asked the dude for a photo. He was a good sport, people in San Francisco are used to encounters much weirder than this.