As a father of two females and a husband of one, I am called to maintain razor-sharp powers of observation. As any father/husband can attest, you never know when someone is going to put you on the spot.

You can be sitting there, innocently drinking your morning coffee, and someone will come along and say, "Do you like what I did with my hair?" Or someone could say, "Do you like these shoes ... or the ones I wore yesterday?" It's not really a question; it's a test, one with no right answers. The scariest question for any husband/father is the dreaded open-ended one: "Notice anything different?" This is usually accompanied by raised and hopeful eyebrows, which can turn the other way on a dime. It could be hair, jewelry, clothes or nothing at all.

If you actually notice something different, you might be wrong — if it was there all along, you haven't been paying attention. If you don't notice anything different, there's no way out. The only decent exit strategy is to pretend you hear the doorbell or your phone buzzing in your pocket. Or pretend you have to go to the bathroom and then jump up and leave the room.

As a husband/father, I am responsible for remembering dates, hairdos, items of clothing and small details that even Rainman couldn't file away. I'm expected to recognize a dress that I saw 18 months earlier, earrings I may or may not have bought 10 years ago, and haircuts that are really only trimming of split ends. If I don't actually notice these things and cannot fake my way through my failure to notice, I've just provided conclusive proof that I'm a clod.

All this is very strange, given that nobody actually notices me around my house. One of the girls might ask whether Dad's out of town when I am sitting on the couch. And my wife might even have to take a quick glance around before answering. And being invisible, it's very unlikely that anyone would notice a change in my appearance. I've gone days without anyone noticing a haircut. (That's not exactly true. They never actually notice.) I could start wearing an eye patch, and it's possible that nobody would notice — unless I also carried a parrot on my shoulder. To be fair, they'd really be noticing the parrot.

Nobody notices my outfits, either. That, at least, is understandable. I have a lot of clothes, but they all look alike. I wear dark golf shirts in summer, dark sweaters in winter and jeans all year. Charlie Brown had more variety in his wardrobe.

The worst is facial hair. I've experimented with all kinds of styles. I've had a full beard, been clean-shaven, and sometimes gone a week between shaves, opting for the "Don Johnson Look." (For those under 30, that means something slightly more than a 5 o'clock shadow and slightly less than a beard. See also "Pretentious.") For months earlier this year, I even sported a "soul patch." (For those over 40, that's basically a Hitler mustache, but upside down and below your mouth. See also "Really Pretentious.")

I currently sport a goatee, but I'm the only one in my house who could tell you that for certain. Last week, I was driving my daughters home from sports practice, and they mentioned that some Dad they knew had grown a beard and he thought he looked "cool." I glanced into the rearview mirror and asked them what was wrong with a beard — I had one. They looked up in surprise, thinking I was lying. I actually had to turn around to prove it. The rest of the way home I wondered whether they could even pick me out of a lineup.

The other day when my wife and I were getting ready for work, I stopped in the front hall, looked in the mirror, and adjusted my tie. After three months of sporting a goatee, I was wondering whether it was time to change my look. Once you start to go a little gray, it's a slippery slope. Before you know it, what started out as cool and rebellious turns into Colonel Sanders. I looked over at my wife.

"Hey," I said, "do you like me better with the goatee or the soul patch?" I turned right and then left, so she could get all angles.

My wife looked at me for a long moment.

"Honestly?" she said, picking up her briefcase. "I really don't care."

She walked out the door, leaving me alone with the man in the mirror. I studied my face for a few moments, wondering which eye would look best with an eye patch and what kind of parrot to buy.

To find out more about Peter McKay, please visit www.creators.com.