RICHARD ORD: Just a whisker away from the perfect birthday gift for my mum

The natural order clearly doesn’t apply to my bracket.

Removing my facial fuzz sent me from what was (obviously just in my eyes) a rugged, slightly Bohemian sophisticate to Mr Burns from The Simpsons in one fell swoop.

Well, I say one fell swoop, removing the chin Mohawk was no easy task. But then again, having a beard has been no cakewalk. That carefree beard involves a lot of care. The unkempt look can only be achieved by lots and lots of kempting.

To shave, you just need a razor (or in my case, a mild breeze). To keep a beard, you employ razors and clippers to keep the overgrowth in check, beard oil to tame and shine and beard combs a plenty. More hassle than it’s worth really.

And to think it only appeared by accident. As the manager of my then eight-year-old son’s football team, I vowed not to shave until they won a game.

The joke backfired. From memory, my young charges went on a 15 game losing streak which took me from smooth faced Arsene Wenger wannabe to Tom Hanks’ Castaway.

By luck, however, my face badger (I’m running out of beard synonyms) coincided with the ‘hipster look’ being fashionable. The beard came and went along the years, but has been a staple of the Ord morning reflection for the last decade until this week. On the occasion of my mother’s 80th birthday, it was decided to honour that landmark with a shave. She hates my beard. Detests it and isn’t shy in letting me know every time I darken her doorstep.

As a birthday treat, it would be removed. After much hacking, clipper activity and the application of a razor with a blade count matching that of slats in a Venetian blind it was consigned to the bin marked ‘Fuzzaway’. The resultant fop-haired Mr Burns was a disappointment to me, but I consoled myself in the knowledge that my mam would be delighted.

And true to form, when I turned up at her birthday bash she … didn’t notice I’d shaved!