Richard was neither a motor mechanic nor an options trader. Still it irritated him that people made assumptions based exclusively on appearance. He blamed the mane for much of this. It had been thinning for maybe ten years, but the silver was well-entrenched by the ripe old age of twenty eight. The beard grew during his thirties when he realised that the bottom half of his face simply had ceased to exist.
The hang-dog contemplative look resulted from life’s marinade. Richard was an interior monologue. He was not hard-wired for the main chance. If the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune passed him by, it did not faze him. Richard exemplified a bloke satisfied with his lot. He lived in his head, hearing Bach Preludes and the drone of Plath reading her own poems in the classic early 60s recordings.
Neither an accountant nor an actuary be, keep ‘em guessing.