Yesterday I said I was going to trim my beard, tomorrow. Today is yesterday's tomorrow, and I trimmed it.
I got smart, and used the same trimmer my wife uses on me: a sort of electric razor with a set of (brushes?) that hold the cutting surfaces a (fairly) fixed distance from the skin.
I think she used the 1/8th inch brush yesterday. I asked her, by the way, and learned that she didn't remember which one she used: she just 'grabs one' and starts cutting.
That might explain a few things.
For the beard trimming, I chose the 1/4" 'brush,' to more-or-less match the rest of my hair. That's a lot closer than I can get it, using my fingers and a scissor.
Anyway, I finished trimming the beard, and had an impressive pile of white, gray and brownish-black hair in the kitchen sink. The bathroom sink isn't available: but that's another story.
Then my wife comes around the corner, takes one look at me, and starts laughing.
She's never seen me with a beard this short. Neither have I, for maybe a third of a century.
Now, several hours later, my wife, our son, and #3 and #1 daughters agree: I look - different.
They're right, you know.