No-Shave November: Early Shave Saves From Hairy Grave
Irony as crisp as a frosty morn. Not three weeks after I wrote an impassioned post detailing my ascent into beardom, I find myself smooth as a baby’s bottom and still firmly in the month of November.
The 30-day quest came to an abrupt and sharp end. I envisioned myself Frodo, bearing the bearded burden up until a shave in the fire of Mount Doom. Instead I found myself the lowly Boramir, dead in the first act after falling to temptation. Memorable only for a single line, which then became a meme. But even he had a beard, and a lush one at that.
Much like the first article predicted, the first weeks were full of optimism and life. The stubble grew quickly and evenly. As I gazed into the mirror after the first seven days, I truly felt that this was to be the year of the beard. It seemed nothing could stop me.
The itchiness began gradually, like a painter tickling my chin with his brush. A scratch here, a scratch there. Nothing major. Soon, however, an itch set in that led to me google “spotless chicken pox.” The constant rustle of long, stringy hairs was maddening. Yet I remained steadfast, determined to not let something as trivial as continual discomfort get in the way of joining the bearded ranks.
Disaster struck during week two – disaster in the form of a mangled mess of long hairs and bare patches of skin. By day twelve I resembled little more than a tree with half of its leaves blown off. Personal discomfort was one thing, but when appearance is called into question, all bets are off.
Teetering alarmingly close to homeless hygiene levels, I stuck with it for two more days. Coworkers and family alike provided the same encouragement one gives to a friend who is about to have a girlfriend’s name tattooed upon his chest.
The final straw came on a Tuesday. I went through that same moment of realization which causes someone to end a year-long claymation project after the sculptures begin talking back. The moment when a lawyer throws all his cases in the air and retires to Honolulu. As I entered a classroom, students from the lecture before busily filed out. Among them, a young man sporting a beard which possessed all the magnificence of a not one but both Disney-themed resorts. Positively glowing, he glanced at my barren mess and gave a half smile. A smile that was simultaneously encouraging and more pretentious than Donald Trump’s entire family.
Look at them. How could anything be more pretentious than that.
Yet somehow it was. And in that moment I knew the die was cast. Fate already decided I was to never achieve a glorious facial scarf. After that very class, in which I was unable to take notes due to ceaseless scratching, I went home and took a razor to my face. Not in the psycho Joker sense where people would forever question how I got those scars, but in the defeated, crying-the-whole-time sense. Not sure which is worse.
After a brief 10 minutes, the culmination of three weeks of work lay in the sink beneath me. Usually when a man shaves his face, he loses two to three points on the attractiveness scale. When the beard is as bad as mine was, the opposite is true. I went from pre-Superbad Jonah Hill to Jonah post-Jump Street 2.
Most importantly, I learned a valuable lesson. It’s all basically genetics, and there is nothing you can do about it.
Good, cause I never even wanted a beard. They’re lame anyway.
Who am I kidding. Beards are so manly, the other definition of the word literally means to “confront something boldly.” And next year around November, I’ll be perusing the internet, see the glory of a beard, and get thinking.
General Accbar will try to warn me.
But it’ll be too late. All I can do is hope that between now and then, scientists put all that global warming and medical research nonsense aside and focus on the real issues: Providing beards to all who may want them. Until then, its a whisker-y life for me.
If you liked this, check out part one to complete the set. Also, maybe hit that share button. That’d be pretty rad.