What started as a few hairs on my face has grown into my friend.
Sometime last week I decided to sprout a beard – an idea I’ve been curious about but never had the will-power to execute. At first, I looked rather dirty and homeless, but after I trimmed it Sunday morning, I only looked dirty.
The funny thing about my facial hair is that it’s a dark red (whereas my head-hair is brown). Several of my co-workers noticed the contrast right away and freely pointed out the obvious as if to catch me in some sort of “red dye” conspiracy.
During the last couple of days, I’ve been tempted to shave it all off and go back to my familiar seal-like appearance. The closest I got to hacking the beard off was last night while trimming it. I thought that I had cut a bit too much off on the left side. “Damn it,” I thought. “I may as well take it all off!”
But I didn’t. Something was telling me not to go through with it just yet. Something was telling me to “hold off on that.” Something – perhaps the beard – was sending me a message.
I know it sounds crazy, but as the beard grew, it developed a life of its own. It’s no longer a question of “Am I growing a beard?” It’s a question of “Is the beard growing me?”
This tiny Ewok on my face (who has acquired the name “Red”) wants to live and resists death by the blade. My only hope is that I can go against his wishes by Sunday, when I have an engagement photo session.
So I’ll leave you with a little factoid: Facial hair is basically pubic hair. Think about it. Guys start growing hair on their faces around age 12 via the goofy “eighth grade mustache” (especially those of Italian background). Is this not the same age as a little life-changing event we call puberty?
Oh yeah. That’s what I thought.
