to notice my facial hair had grown out to the point where, rather than combining with my ultra-limited wardrobe to make me look like a man outside the margins of desire, it causes smiles from passing women.
Not, I suspect, in conjunction with the wardrobe, though. On its own
I became aware of my return to handsome via the smiles and other interaction with women and non-women both.
Sadly, the hair will grow further and soon damn me again.
And I had sufficient razor power to keep all of this — the good and the bad — from happening. But when next I need to shave, it may cost more than I have.