Hair to Stay

I know we all just recovered from celebrating the first birthday of my blog, but there is another birthday today that deserves recognition (I guess this time of year is my time for change and personal growth). This time, it is even more personal, because I am celebrating something that is literally a part of who I am. St. Patrick's Day also happens to be the birthday of my rockin' beard.

It was three years ago today that my face gained a best friend, and the two of them have be inseperable ever since. That's nearly a thousand days of uninterrupted beard awesomeness. It all started because I was young and stupid and wanted to see if I could grow a full beard without it looking rediculous. Although there was that inital awkward, scratchy, hobo-like phase in which I wasn't sure if I could go through with it, I knew that I was doing something amazing and persevered. A few weeks later and I was receiving compliments left and right for my new manly chin rug. Classmates who had said no more than two words to me for the entire semester were saying how well my face was suited for a full beard and moustache. Women swooned when I walked into a room. One particular young lady was reluctant at first to admit how great it really was, even going so far as to tell me, "I would never kiss a guy with a beard!" Today, she is now one of its biggest fans, and there was even a kiss or two in there to show how incredible an experience it really is.

Alas, there was one stalwart critic of my hirsute happiness: my mother. If I received a dollar every time she tried to coerce me into shaving, I would be on a beach somewhere sipping Bahama-Mommas rather than penning this self-promoting tripe. I can't blame her though. If she had her way, I'd stay small, incontinent, and hairless forever; it's what moms do. Luckily, my father understood my plight and gave me his support. He has sported a beard since the mid-seventies, so he gets the bond that forms between a man and his facial hair. After a while, it becomes as much a part of you as your arm or duodenum. This became especially true once I realized that there are people who know me only with the beard. The hairless version of me is a total stranger to them, and a fading memory for myself. These days, I can't even imagine what I would look like without it, nor do I wish to find out.

It isn't all good though. I quickly learned that there is severe prejudice against facial hair in American society. I ahve been denied employment because of it, part of some half-cocked hygiene standard or something. It's as though people think that only dirty, stinky hobos wear beards and civilized men are clean-shaven. Why does progress equal shaving? This isn't just a modern problem though. After visiting France, Germany and Great Britain, Czar Peter the Great returned to Russia and demanded that all men shave their spectacular beards in order to fit in with the "modern style." If that ain't bullshit, I must be looking at the wrong end of the cow!

At least some cultures appreciate a good beard. Jews and Muslims are the masters of it; their God demands that men sport beards. How can anyone deny the existence of a God that awesome? There are also people in this country who are not afraid to spit in the face of convention and rock the beard world and cry out "Fie!" to razors. I sometimes wish that women were able to understand how amazing it is to grow a beard. It isn't really fair that they are stuck with those soft, pretty faces, without a whisker in sight. Oh well, at least they get to kiss ours.