May the beard be with you

During the course of my recent unemployment, I have sent out resumes, I have networked, I applied to volunteer, all the things one should accomplish. And lastly, I decided to grow a beard. Yeah, just like the movie Mr. Mom. Remember this classic conversation?

Ron Richardson: Yeah? Are you gonna make it all 220?
Jack Butler: Yeah. 220... 221, whatever it takes.

My decision to grow a beard was, I admit, driven by one part laziness’ and one part financially. The laziness’ was obvious. Every morning, I go to battle with the hair follicle’s that cover my face with musky smelling soap and a razor that holds five scalpel styles blades to do their work. Sure, there are always some casualties (nothing that a little toilet paper can’t heal), but morning ritual had grown stale. On the weekends I would teas my chin, not shaving until early Monday morning, giving my neck and cheek hairs some life before I mercifully hacked them down. Then, to add further punishment, I would dose them with a stinging after shave. They were not amused.

It was then, that the beard began to plot its revenge.

The beard has always wanted grow. Knowing that if I could just get through the awkward sandpaper and patchwork phase it would all work out (we won’t talk about the ‘grey’ phase). So, after conferring with the wife and kid, we all agreed to give it life. I felt reborn. I felt strong. I felt like I was giving back. The beard was all for it.

My immediate friends all had their initial opinions – from ‘must be not feeling well’, and ‘hasn’t he ever heard of Gillett?’ to ‘what the hell is that?’ and ‘is he trying to be a Civil War reenactment actor?’ but I’ll damn society and I’ll break the trend. The beard would not only enhance my fire side chat sweater but it would make me stand out amongst all the men. Goat-tees are trendy. Mustaches are too old school. And I mean like old school from the Normandy beach invasion days. Not for me.
So, the beard progressed. It became fuller and richer as did my attitude. “I am a real man” I shouted to myself, “I’m not afraid of growing a beard’. Other men sensed my cockiness and suddenly would change direction in aisles in stores or move over to another urinal.
But quite suddenly, the questions began. And just like any person who is on top, there are folks looking to knock them down. And they usually don’t have beards. I would hear things like ‘going hiking this weekend?’ and I would have to summon the energy to look at them, still with my confidence high and answer ‘no. I’m going to a butterfly exhibit with my daughter’.
Agh!
What was happening? I gave the beard life and it was now turning on me. For all the years that I sub consciously just butchered the follicles under my thought process of ‘routine’. I sensed the beard laughing at me and I needed to keep it under control. Other bearded men were on to my facade. Non bearded men still held me in esteem. I was caught in the middle. Like between an admiral beard (the big chin strap) and the Grizzly Adam’s (full on ‘can’t find your own mouth on your own face’ beard). I needed to make a decision. I could go out a buy real hiking boots and some flannel shirts or a new pack of Fuzion razors and some exfoliating soap. Me and the beard, well, we’re going to have it out.
So, the beard grew. And grew; and grew. Its fullness started to become a hazard. Its maintenance became all too consuming. Here I was giving my full beard its own life and it was starting to turn. The beard began to itch. It was at that point I dreamed about being able to scratch my face with my hind legs, like my dog, just to alleviate the discomfort; although if that were the case, I would never leave the house. I was now discovering food hidden away in tiny nooks and crannies of the beard map. The upkeep was now battling with the status, and I was growing tired.
Monday morning I wiped the steam off the vanity mirror and announced to no one in particular that I was ready to rejoin the beardless society. Ten minutes later, I surveyed the flotsam and jetsam that was floating in the pool and decided not to second guess. Too late for that! The five extra sharp Schick blades did their damage and soon I was just another guy mowing his lawn in the suburbs with white toilet paper clinging to his face. I was blending in. I was sad.

Maybe if I lived in a more rural surrounding like New Hampshire or even Colorado would my facial hair look be more approving. Hell, I would chop wood and take hikes knowing that my beard and I were joined at the cheek. With this experiment now over, I take with me the joy of having been one of them. The non societal crusaders whose lust for finely trimmed facial hair was not met with disdain or prejudice. Now, all I need to do is get out of this non beard state and find employment in a non beard free zone in the comforts of a small home town. Somewhere in the woods. Near a hiking trail.

May the beard be with you.

I really need to get out of the house.