Quite often people who haven't lived here a long time want to know how come I don't look like that caricature drawing which appears at the head of this column.

Many years ago, long before I bought the Kalispell Weekly News, I grew a broad goatee because it was the easiest way to conceal what seemed at the time to be the beginning of a double chin. That is why the Frank Hagel caricature, shows my naturally strong masculine chin and rugged determined jaw line, camouflaged by very dark whiskers.

After selling the paper in 1982 and sort of "dropping out" to work on my books and just relax a little, I grew a full beard which in certain deceiving light, seemed to start showing more white than black. That was acceptable for a few years, especially after a well preserved (slightly pickled) lady in a Lake Tahoe casino mistook me for Kenny Rogers.

But alas! All the facial brush south of the sideburns and mustache was sheared off right to mineral soil in July of 1984, after a dumb little kid down at Western Outdoor started telling me what he wanted for Christmas.

Meanwhile … for several years there has been an obvious diabolic plot, hatched by big city clothes, hair, and cosmetics fashion designers, to make men and women look more alike. The androgynous looking hairdo is "in" among many male and female rock stars and with most "high fashion" models. They appear to be cloned from one sexless source. After reading an annual "fashion edition" of Esquire Magazine, I stopped sending in my subscription renewal money. Too many of the young men wearing the new clothes had the appearance of being in good physical condition, but I somehow got the feeling that in an old fashion donnybrook, they'd prefer going into the fray vigorously lashing out with a velvet purse.

Several magazines carried photos of a British rock musician and his new American debutante wife. It is doubtful that I could ever accept with calm, a groom who rivals his bride for "loveliness—even if they do have matching earrings.

The closest I ever came to falling victim to unisex promotions was a few years back, when I sneaked a dab of Iris' Oil of Olay. From the high-powered ads I'd seen on the telly, I figured it would erase wrinkles overnight … even from a pickup fender. Just knew it would do instant miracles on my chin. For all the good it did in restoring my youth, I should have rubbed it on the truck.

As time goes along, local folks of varying ages react differently to the outside pressures trying to make males and females look more alike; but there is no doubt about what crotchety old codgers like me will be doing.

We'll not be following any kooky fashions, and if forced by circumstances, I for one will not hesitate to grow back the whiskers. I'd rather be mistaken for Santa George than Boy George; and I never want anyone, anywhere at any time or place to wonder which bathroom I use at service stations.