My Beard

     If you don't already know, I have a beard. I suppose it would be more accurate to call the particular portion I'm referring to as a goatee. This section of my beard is quite large; you could even call it iconic in a way. By this I mean that I'm known for it. My friends have invented wild stories about my beard, about the things it's done, and the things it does. If half of these stories were true, my beard would be twice the man I'll ever be. It has a persona all it's own, and honestly, it's got me jealous. It's the first thing most people notice about me, and is the source of about the only thing a stranger will ask me or say to me. I field beard compliments and questions from all sorts of people. There are some who are curious as to how long it's grown, or how it feels, or how I maintain it. There are some who are impressed by it; these are the folks who can't grow one. There are some who are repulsed by it; these folks lack “Y” chromosomes. The point is that my beard is all sorts of things to all sorts of people, including me.

     It lives on for any number of reasons. For starters, I suppose it's a distraction. If people ask me about my beard, they're not asking about me, and I can remain comfortably anonymous. It's also an icebreaker. It's really very effective at starting conversations. Let's not forget that it's memorable. Who could remember poor, boring Cecil? Not nearly as many as could remember that guy from that place whose beard was so long he could eat it. More than that, it's about control. The longer it grew, the longer I felt some pathetic sort of power. It's one of those things that you either love or hate; you're forced to pick a side. And whether you were pro-beard or anti-beard, I controlled what happened. It's more than that too, but it's main function has been the divide it creates between me and the rest of the world.

     This beard has always been anti-establishment. This beard has always resisted compromise. This beard has always loved metal tunes, saucy foods, cigarette smoke, Phillip Seymour Hoffman films, windy days, computer games, and good times. But this beard has always been separating me from everyone else. Has always been holding me back, and holding me up. It's always told the world that I refused to join the nameless, faceless void. As long as I had the beard I could boldly claim to be a man apart. I'm certainly not a rebel, I've got no cause to fight for, and sorry James Dean, but rebellion without a cause is conformity. No, it just says that I wanna see how far I can make it doing it my own way.

    Lately, I've been considering shaving. I'd be plunging head first into a swirling mass of rule-followers and order-takers. People with sensible priorities, more than two pairs of jeans, resumes, favorite colors, collectibles, and formal socks. I won't go so far as to say I'll fully emulate them. I won't put on a tie, and I'll never ever opt for a seat in the non-smoking section. Perhaps my incorruptible and unchanging view of how the world should work should focus a bit more on how it actually does. It's not that I've changed my mind on anything, but it's awful lonely up here on my indefensibly high moral ground. I've been so pissed lately that I have to clench my jaws all day in fear that this knot of rage squirming in my throat will turn into a brood of vipers, and escape as I exhale, and rain down on all the people I stand unfairly in judgment of. So, maybe if I eliminate everything that stands between me and the rest of humanity I'll get somewhere.