Growing up, I always thought guys who had beards looked cool. My favorite athlete was Minnesota Vikings defensive lineman Alan Page. Alan Page had an awesome beard, so I looked forward to the day when I could have one like his. The 1970s were a great time for facial hair on athletes. One in particular, Chicago Bulls center Artis Gilmore, was exceptional. Artis was an artist with his facial hair. He would grow out his beard, then trim it into cool angles and designs. Combine it with the bushy sideburns and the massive afro, and Artis Gilmore was the coolest looking dude in the world.
In high school, there are always those one or two guys who are able to grow beards by the time they are sophomores. I was not one of them. By the time I went to college I was telling bad jokes about my facial hair, like "I've been shaving for three years, and I cut myself both times," and "I've got a basketball moustache: five on each side."
I did finally get to the point where I needed to shave every day. But, it wasn't because if I didn't I'd have that cool Don Johnson "Miami Vice" two-day stubble. No, if I didn't shave I'd have that four-hairs-growing-out-of-your-chin Shaggy from "Scooby-Doo" look.
|This is me and my friends a few years after high school.|
I'm the one on the left with the spottiest beard.
As I got older, I eventually tried to grow a beard. It was very patchy and spotty, like the lawn of a vacant house. I settled on a version of a goatee. I say a "version" of a goatee because an actual goatee has hair that attaches from the moustache to the beard on the chin. Mine had a bald spot.
I had that version of a goatee the first time I met my future wife. Thankfully, I had shaved it off before we had our first date. Whenever I threaten to grow it back, she shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and tells me I can "do whatever I want," with the direct implication that if I did it she wouldn't be happy.
I don't think she has to worry. A few weeks ago it hit home to me that I should be done with any more attempts at facial hair. I decided I'd try to grow my sideburns out. (Nothing like Artis Gilmore. I would settle for the much more modest Luke Perry look.) Well, it took about three weeks before my wife even noticed I was trying to grow them. And then came the kicker. My three year old daughter was sitting next to me. She was looking intently at the side of my face for a few moments, then she said, "Are you the one with all the fuzzies?" Ouch.
Of course, that's not to say that I can't grow ANY hair on my face. I have two random eyebrow hairs that think I am a Romulan. If left unchecked, they will grow about two inches longer than all the rest of my eyebrow hairs, like some kind of antennae. (Unfortunately, they don't help my cell phone reception at all.)
And then there's the nose hairs. The older I get, the more out of control the nose hairs are. I think my best chance at a passable moustache would be if I didn't trim my nose hairs. (But, I don't think The Wife would approve of that, either.)
A while back, I went to a doctor. He had a white nose hair that shot down about an inch from his nose, then curled up like a fish hook. I have no idea what the doctor told me that day because I just couldn't take my eyes off of that amazing nose hair. I don't even remember the doctor's name. To me, he is Dr. Fish-hook-nose-hair. (I've tried to look him up on Google using that name, with no success.)
So, I think The Wife is safe. I'm not going to try to grow facial hair anymore. (At least until I can figure how to do some kind of comb-over with these ear hairs.)
Now choose a title that best fits this story:
O A. The Un-Moustachioed Dandy
O B. Not By the Hair of My Chinny-Chin-Chin
O C. Artis the Artist
O D. The Shaggy D.A. (I'll leave it to you to figure what the "D.A." stands for.)
O E. The One With All the Fuzzies