COLUMN: The beardless find masculinity in November
If you are one of the immaculate half dozen who are familiar with my vast line of work in the field of column-writing, you would know I have several writing topics I wouldn’t touch unless I was instructed to write them through tyrannical force. I have never had an issue writing about the controversial subject of facial hair.
It’s November, everyone. This is the month in which we commemorate endless portions of poultry and cranberry sauce, football officially becomes the stronghold of our existence, falling leaves stop being cute, we are generally between 300 and 320 days away from the MTV Video Music Awards and our executive federal power for the free world is temporarily handed down to striped sweaters.
Yet somehow – though we don’t yet have a well-founded and agreed-upon name for it – this month has become a safe haven for furry faces.
Now, I’m not one to ostracize. I enjoy an enriching facial tradition much as the next Burt Reynolds, and I’d be happy to be a part of a revolution that welcomes flannel and knitted caps the world over.
The issue is there are many roadblocks, and a glaring one is that facial hair isn’t something that responds very well to my countenance.
Doesn’t respond very well meaning I don’t grow facial hair as well as I’d like.
Facial hair doesn’t grow as well as I’d like meaning it is sparse at best.
Sparse at best meaning in my greatest efforts, my face resembles the floor of a chinchilla-themed barber shop. If that joke doesn’t resonate with you, Google “chinchillas” – they’re like the kiwi fruit of rodent creatures.
Trust me when I say this is far more than simple speculation. I have attempted the way of the beard several times, in numerous forms and associations. Full beards had no flair. A goatee was not enough goat for my tee, and circle beard just left me wanting. My columns past have documented that I once almost found success with the cowboy-like, full-beard-bare-chin look until I came a across a man at a demolition derby and found my facial display resembled a peach fusing with a nectarine.
At best it was embarrassing.
I mean, what kind of a man can I be if my face won’t kneel itself to a glorious coat of wool? I can eat as many cinderblocks and drink as much beef jerky as I want, all in a Rambo garb, and I will never see my manliness find full closure. I fear this labels me as an unmanly man – all Tom Brady with no Dick Butkus.
Even still, I refuse to give up. I deserve to find my inner man. I must prove I have heavy metal muscle to my smooth jazz of a personality. Until there comes a day where my facial bravado forms an identity of its own, I must find other ways to reveal my inner brawn.
It comes through little changes. It comes with turning sideburns into chops, corduroys into denim jeans, sweaters into jackets and glasses into laser-glasses. Instead of walking to the grocery store, I strafe and mountain crawl. It is not what I don’t shave that defines my manliness, but what I don’t do even though it makes perfect sense to do it for safety and sanity. If it all comes down to its very worst, we still have slick-faced Bear Grylls. I don’t feel I need to discuss that factor any further.
To those abroad who suffer from my same inability to warm face skin as effectively as you would like, you are not alone. Let us glue felt to our faces with pride, carry bows and arrows for the good of our character and become better each day while eating things that should be cooked first because we can. The beard does not define the man: The man defines the beard.
For those who still celebrate the festival of no razors until December, we salute you.
– Steve Schwartzman is a senior in communication studies and linguistics. When he isn’t trying too hard to make people laugh he is usually watching sports, watching 90’s cartoons or experiencing all things Aggie Life. Got a good idea for Steve to rant about? Hit him up at steve.schwartzman@aggiemail.usu.edu
or on Twitter @SchwartZteve