January 18th, 2009: Middle Street, Portland, ME

Outside the Nickelodeon theater, a man stopped me to talk about my beard.

"Nice beard, man. Good one."

"Thank you." Over a foot of snow had just fallen and was still falling and none of the passing plows seemed to have their blades down. I could feel a stiff white rime of breath collecting around my mouth. It was going to be a long walk home.

He looked young but like he'd earned each of his years the hard way, and his grey jacket and hat looked worn and dirty. I wondered if he might be a street person. But then again, he might have wondered the same about me. My jacket was worn and dirty, too.

After muttering some things I didn't quite understand, he said, "I'm trying to grow mine out, too," and stroked his own cheeks, which looked bare and freshly-shaven and raw from the blustering wind. Then he patted the crook of his elbow. "I'm growing my beard from my arm."

I thought it might be a joke, that he might be holding a bottle there. "Okay." But he wasn't holding anything.

"But no dreads this time." He wasn't kidding about this: "They don't keep you warm for shit."

Do you know what people mean when they say "a thousand mile stare"? I didn't before. Now I do.

"Well," I said, watching him stroke his elbow, "good luck with that, man."

"Hey, thanks!" And he seemed genuinely glad to have my well-wishing as the snow drifted and spun and we each went our separate ways.