COLUMN: Embracing the facial-hair craze proves to be an itchy endeavor
Beard.
Before I discuss the first word ever-so-swiftly scripted at the beginning of this piece, I want to crunch some numbers for you. I am 23 years old. I was born in December of 1988. This means my life has taken place during part of four different decades. I have lived through four presidential administrations, at least three royal weddings, 11 NBA Championships celebrated by someone involving the names “Jordan” and “Kobe,” countless natural disasters, and one six-season-long television show with an array of swimmingly confusing plots and one astoundingly bad ending – that’s right, “Lost,” I’m calling you out. I gave you everything and you broke my innocent spirits. How c ould you?
Now, I give you this lesson in what I call “Schwartzmath,” because in all my years as a well-functioning human I can’t recall hearing mention of the word “beard” as frequently as I have in the last two years. It’s become its own strange, hairy fad, kind of like Bob Ross was in a way – if you’re into painting “happy little trees,” I mean.
I understand that fads happen quickly, and some even stick around long enough to become strongly ingrained into society, but this current facial follicle freaka-craze has waxed rather bizarre to me for quite some time, and even though I am more spiteful toward trends than Launchpad is horrendously bad at flying, I just had to know. I had to know what the entire hullabaloo was about. It was time for me to take my turn in visiting the whimsical world of whiskers.
The first thing I had to do was decide what kind of beard I wanted. I was dumbfounded in learning there was a grand preponderance of options for a hairy hopeful. One could make a killing printing a catalogue – seriously, and you could call it “Brawnyman’s Quarterly,” it’s solid gold – with all the possibilities. Did I want a simple goatee? Possibly a fu manchu? Perhaps I have the means to maintain a well-trimmed, fully covered and all-bases-accounted-for look. I call it the “Clive Owen.”
Or, if I’m brave, I could even go for “The Works.” You know what I’m talking about – the crème de la crème of beards. The all-things manly beard. The second identity kind of beard. The beard-in, beard-out, beard all around kind of beardy beard, like if Willie Nelson’s chin line crossbred with a bear and got a perm. That kind of beard.
I wanted to be typical, but risky. Essentially, I wanted a Carlton from “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” type of beard, with just a little edge. I let it all grow out for three weeks and was overly shocked to learn that my facial hair was quite the format bender. My hair is blonde, quite blonde, but I had no clue after so many years of clean-shavenness that my facial hair actually gleams bright red. Light on top, red on the bottom. My head was akin to a cheesy lasagna.
Day 22 sank in. I stood upright in front of a mirror, razor in hand. After 40 minutes of contemplation, I took charge and decided to make one simple move. I ran my razor across my chin, making my southern face-bump rather bare, and then put it away. That’s right, just the chin.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I look haggard, a step under rugged – a bit more than a pirate but not quite Road Warrior Hawk. I looked bold, I looked unkempt, I looked dazed and almost canine-esque.
I. Looked. Awesome.
Little did I know this fantastic mirror moment was all the honeymoon stage my chin would get. Nobody warned me about the chronic itch factor that followed the first beard trim. It was nearly unbearable. Consider every wool sweater given to you by a relative. Well, at that moment I possessed each and every one of those ungodly sweaters, and they were on my face. I am only my lucky my hair is red enough that I can scratch all I want with hardly any noticed. At least there was that.
The rest of the aftermath was a heinous kind of torture surrounded by my inability to never be a to eat a pudding cup in peace – like trying laydown slurry seal in a thick South American rain forest. Why must pure beauty come at such a heavy price?
Soon, and I mean very soon, I will let me razor wreak havoc and that madness will end. I’ll be back to my baby-faced self. But not before the chance I had to be a part of all of the excitement, and as a participant I give one word of advice: if it is facial excitement you crave, save yourself the torture and just buy colored contact lenses. At least then people will mistake you for a cat.