Our high school transgression - 2

When worn upon a man, there is something about the beard, which can be both your best friend and your worst enemy. On the one hand they conjure up the happy countenances of grey grandfathers and fireside fables and hard candy. Yet, on the other, they enable even the sternest of men to sore even higher- with seeming ease I might add - in the upper stratospheres of effective childhood punishment.

Why do I speak of these matters, you ask?

It was upon the face of our head teacher, a most fierce and frothy beard resided. It was the most oppressive of beards a school boy could lay his not so innocent eyes upon, and it was from behind this lion’s mane, our judge recounted detail for detail the pitiable story of our transgression Timings he knew; details he knew; exact whereabouts, all of these with teacher-like precision he knew. I would not be surprised if he had known the color of the clothes on our backs, or the number of freckles on our faces, or, the exact planetary positioning of the moon in the sky that night. The judge , the sole decider of our young adolescent fate sentenced us to the most cruel and fitting of punishments.

A letter.

A simple letter of apology was all that was required of our guilty hands. For a crime so personal however, a crime so mischievous, a crime which tells the story of every young boy, nothing could be more appropriate.