Boromir leaned toward the mirror, examining his chin.

Nothing.

He turned his head from side to side, ran his palm up his neck, over his cheeks.

Still nothing. Nothing at all. He was twelve years old! What was taking so long?

“Boromir?” His uncle was standing there, looking very like he was hiding a grin. “What are you doing, lad?”

Boromir flushed, embarrassed at having been caught. But, he thought, Imrahil was the perfect person to discuss this troubling problem with. “Uncle,” he asked wistfully, throwing another glance at the mirror, “ how old were you when you grew your beard?”