It's Me or the Beard!

The men in my family are not an inherently hirsute bunch of people. My younger brother continues to struggle, at twenty-four, with the ability to produce more than a mere crustache above his upper lip and even that takes several weeks. Thus, he continues to be mistaken for a prepubescent youth at more frequent intervals that he would probably like. While my father did sport a decently well-developed mustache throughout my early years, I believe I was born after its inception and thus I cannot verify how long it took for that facial feature to reach its fullest state. Not to dig too deeply into my own psychosis, but perhaps due to a desire to live life on the edge or at least branch out from the men in my family, I chose to marry a man who claims to have begun shaving in late elementary school. Although my husband is prone to the occasionally, or frequent, exaggeration, I do believe there is a shred of credibility in this assertion.

It seems that my darling husband blossomed well before others his age stopped playing with G.I. Joes. According to lore, he also reached his current height and relative weight by middle school. No doubt this frightened off many a young lady whom he hoped to pursue or even more so their fathers who didn’t want a man-child taking their daughters to the eighth grade dance.

Nevertheless, since my significant other has been sporting a five o’clock shadow at about nine in the morning for many, many years, I can understand why shaving is a laborious and arduous task in which he does not necessarily want to engage everyday. Thus, I have been accustomed to the occasional goatee or beard during our relationship. Usually though, he needs to spruce up his appearance or simply gets bored with the facial overgrowth and shaves it off in a reasonable period of time. Unfortunately, this is apparently no longer the situation. My husband is now proclaiming, with great sincerity, that he is preparing to cultivate a beard well longer than socially acceptable standards for all those who are not members of ZZ Top or the Hell’s Angels.

Currently, I think my husband resembles Yukon Cornelius from the claymation version of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. His macho mask is clumpy and the Benetton of beards, displaying an array of colors from blond to red, lengths that vary from mere wisps to actual tresses, and textures that range from brillo pad to sandpaper. Supposedly the beard growth is in homage to his lacrosse team and will not be shaved until they win ten games. Not to espouse a negative attitude towards the team, but up until now, they have only managed to defeat one team in six years of existence. If he’s waiting for them to win ten games, he’s going to look more like Methuselah or the unabomber before it is time for a trim. Certainly, you can understand my concern. I realize that everyone has a right to adorn their body, whether in clothing or facial hair, as they so choose; however, when it looks like I’m out to dinner with a member of the witness protection program or someone who just needs a hot meal, I think I am entitled to voice my opinion.

Due to the overgrowth of his facial forest, I have tried a variety of tactics to coerce my beloved into abandoning this pursuit. First, I appealed to his fear of aging by pointing out the gray hairs that were sprouting from his follicular fleece. I explained that these hairs added at least fifteen years to his already overly mature visage. If he already felt like a pervert every time we went out and I got carded and he didn’t, this beard was definitely not going to make that issue go away. However, this was not enough of a reason to warrant removing the wiry whiskers.

Next, I employed the fright factor by asserting that bugs and other insects could lay larvae in his chin cloak. One day, I warned, he would wake up to find spiders crawling all over his face and into all of his orifices after they burst the egg sacks that were embedded in his beard. Knowing his irrational and extreme fear of bugs, I thought that surely this would dissuade him. Even after citing Internet evidence of the veracity of my statements, he still held firm on his quest for facial fur.

My final tactic involved appealing to his competitive coaching side. I fruitlessly hoped to convince my husband that he would have a hard time recruiting lacrosse players when he looked like every cult leader that made it onto the nightly news. Who was going to trust their children to him when he looked like Charles Manson or “Father” David Berg from the Children of God cult in L.A. in the late sixties? Would they really want a sip of what he was offering? I didn’t think so.

Unfortunately, none of my sound reasoning could shake my spouse’s conviction that beards are “cool”. When asked to cite “cool” men with beards, those that are habitual drug users were not permitted on the list, he weakly mentioned Bob Villa, Al (from Tool Time) Boreland, and the embodiment of sanity and citizenship, Joaquin Phoenix. The last time I checked, and I am no beacon of coolness myself, flannel shirts and psychosis were not the epitome of hip and trendy.

As the beard continues to grow, I have trouble overcoming some of my own misgivings and fears. Personally, I see it becoming a bacteria bush as germs from sneezes and coughs become trapped in his snot net, much the way cotton pieces get stuck on watch bands or dryer trays. I anticipate more frequent colds and flues developing as a result of my husbands’ latest endeavor to over-masculate himself. Plus, the thought of what might be caught in his facial wool is quite a deterrent when it comes to kissing or any other intimate gesture. Already I’ve caught him using it as a personal snack shack and picking crumbs out from earlier meals. I am almost afraid of what we will find in there in a few months if his pursuit of a jowl jacket continues. Therefore, if you see my husband around or talk to him on the phone and wish to reiterate any of my previously made points, without directly pointing the finger at me, I would greatly appreciate your assistance.