It's August, now. Opening month for the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire. We go every year. Last year we even purchased a season pass, going probably half a dozen times.

I like the Faire a lot. It's a great deal of fun, so long as you're careful to keep yourself hydrated. The sun can be particularly nasty, especially in August.

I admit to having some reservations about going this year. One thing is that a mind-numbingly cute young merchant named Pixie may not be there, since last season she mentioned that she may be moving to California to go to art school.

The other concern has to do with the way I'm treated at the Faire. I am often the target of a form of discrimination.

I know, it's terrible. You wouldn't expect such a thing at a cordial place like the Faire. But it happens. Let me explain.

I'm a hairy guy. Ask any of my friends, they'll tell you. In college, I was the target of such jokes as "His favorite deodorant is Love My Carpet." Childish, yes?

My Renaissance garb rather accentuates my hirsute state. I wear a pair of drawstring pants and a suede vest. The vest is buttoned, but there's no shirt under it, thus exposing a good bit of my chest, not to mention my shoulders. (At least I've got compassion enough to spare the Faire-goers the sight of my back. People passing out from the heat is one thing, but...)

I should have known what I was in store for when Sir Walter Raleigh once proclaimed, as I walked past, "Good Lord! That man is part wolf!" I snarled at him.

But things only got worse. Last season alone, the following happened to me:

While walking along, going from one show to the next, we encountered an actor greeting the Faire-goers. "God save you, sir. God save you, madam," he was saying. "God save you." And upon seeing me, it was, "God shave you..."

Later that same day, while watching a show, the performer needed someone from the audience for participation. He'd seen me at this same show previously and when he saw me this time, he altered the role of the participant from something fairly innocuous to that of... a bear. As soon as he said it, I knew I was about to be put on display. I was dragged up on stage where I pretended to be shackled to a post, awaiting death. Several small children were brought on stage, playing the role of dogs who were attacking me. I got to maul one of them. I liked that. I was also requested to roar. I gave it my best shot.

Toward the end of that same day, two small boys approached me, staring goggle-eyed at my arms. "Is that real?" one of them asked. I assured them it was. Their father was mortified.

On another occasion, as I was standing alone, watching a musical consort play, a Pilgrim and a Lady walked by. The Pilgrim amused the Lady by making a statement about my obvious lycanthropy. I said nothing in reply. Several minutes later, the Pilgrim returned alone, coming up to me and saying, "I pray I didn't offend thee earlier." I put on my best hurt look and said, "Well... It's just that... I didn't think it showed." The Pilgrim was shocked, then tried his best (and failed) to hold back an explosive laugh, which he immediately regretted. Pilgrims aren't supposed to laugh, after all.

I don't want to give you the impression that such attention to my fur is entirely bad. One very memorable encounter took place in one of the shops. I was looking over some of the pewter wares when the Queen herself came in with one of her retainers. At one point she was standing right beside me. I greeted her politely. She returned the greeting enthusiastically, first verbally, her eyes still fixated on some pretty baubles in the case. She reached out her arm toward me, placing it on my shoulder. Now, I should explain that the fur on my shoulders, when I'm wearing a vest, tufts up quite nicely. Her hand landed right on the tuft. Her eyes widened and she stared at me. "Oh, my! You are a lovely man, aren't you?" After this, she proceeded to run her fingers through the tufts, obviously quite enjoying herself.

And of course, there was the time, a few seasons before, when I was wearing a V-necked tunic rather than the vest, and one of the food wenches asked if she could run her hands through my chest hair. Hey, I'm no fool. I let her.

But in general, it's not real pleasant. I feel like an animal on display.

I'll go, of course.

But I may just wear a parka.