I noticed recently that my beard was looking a little less “deliberate aesthetic decision” and decidedly more “just released from a Thai prison”, so I accepted it was time to give it a trim before we headed off on holiday.

I have a slight issue with beard trimming, in that one of my eyes is much, much better at its core function (seeing things) than the other. Therefore, one side of my face is much more likely to look good than the other. I have lost count of the number of times that I have assumed the beard to be perfect, only to put on my glasses and see that I look like I am wearing some sort of furry chinstrap. (You may think I should wear the glasses while trimming; alas, this is an inelegant solution unless I purchase lab goggles, as I need to see beyond the range of normal specs.)

I have managed to get fairly good at working around my beard blind spot, but this week I allowed complacency to get the better of me. I got out the clippers and was working on my good-vision side when I decided to give the beard border by my ear a super-crisp finish; instead I went straight through the beard mainland by mistake. Almost every beard wearer will know this feeling. You look in the mirror in silent panic, debating whether the situation can be rescued or whether you are going to be forced to commit beard hara-kiri.

I quickly assessed the situation to be beyond repair and so, using my tears as clipper lubricant, got rid of the beard completely. I was sans chin squirrel for the first time in a decade. I looked at the stranger in the mirror and wondered how my family would respond. Would my wife find me attractive any more? Was the “any more” in that question necessary? Would my kids find it weird? This would be the first time in their lives they would be seeing me clean-shaven.

I opened the bathroom door to reveal the devastation to my wife. She looked me up and down and said: “This is all we’re going to hear about on holiday, isn’t it?” My eldest son said: “It doesn’t look awful, but it doesn’t look good.” My middle son begged me to grow it back. Our youngest son didn’t notice a thing.

My wife has been laughing at the level of my overreaction ever since, seemingly forgetting that when her hairdresser once cut her hair shorter than normal we had to hold a memorial service. But I just can’t get used to it. I don’t mind looking slightly different; what I do mind is looking in the mirror and seeing my dead father looking back at me.

I now have horrible bits of grey stubble coming through. When I went out with my friends the other night, I had to give them a 10-minute amnesty to essentially roast my face. One of them told me that I seemed less funny without a beard. Could this affect my career? What if it never grows back? These are all questions I asked my wife when I got home that night and, frankly, she is proving pretty insensitive about the whole thing.