I’ve known of several clean-shaven gentlemen in my life so far whom I have actually looked up to once upon a time for their cleanliness. You could clean compact discs on their faces, they were so smooth. Over the course of many months, I’d always lose myself in thought over the smooth appearance of their clefts, feel my own chin, and then sigh in disappointment. I would never be as clean-shaven as them, I always thought. They probably devoted a few minutes every single morning to maintaining their baby’s-bottom-smooth composure, and that was just the kind of dedication I did not have. These people, these so very extremely smooth people were like titans in mine eyes, titans of clean.
Then, several months passed in which I did not see them (namely summer), and behind my back, a transformation occured, a blatant deception. My faith in their faces would be lost. Wouldn’t you know it, the next time I saw them, they looked like a collective yeti. Just like that, they all had beards, and since it was so spontaneous, they were all PUBE beards. I hadn’t seen these friends of mine since May, and though I was happy to see them, I could NOT, for the life of me, take my eyes off the forests growing out of their faces. “Where the hell did those come from?” I asked pointing. “Oh, we grew these for Burning Man,” one of them replied. I grinned and nodded, making it appear as though I were taking the flimsy reason in stride, but I really wasn’t. JUST LIKE THAT, THEY HAD BEARDS. JUST LIKE THAT, THEY WERE ALL GRIZZLY EFFING ADAMS! For Pete’s sake, did Burning Man not have enough kindling?
So now, every time I think of my once clean-shaven friends, I think of their sudden departure from the alter of my respect. In a literal blink of the shocked this-cannot-be-what-I’m-really-seeing eye, they were just as dirty and greasy in appearance as the rest of humanity… (That is except for the pristine individuals who maintain this site of course). Whenever I meet up with them nowadays, I cannot help but stare at them and expect to see a cougar leap out of their faces, or, for that matter, to see the very beards themselves crawl off and scurry into a hole in the floor. Oh, but heaven forbid I stare for too long. If I venture too deeply into their scraggly pube beards without a map, I may find myself stranded, lost without a way out. And there are no rivers to follow in THAT kind of jungle… God forbid anyway.
You see, I know some people who have always had beards. That is to say they’ve always had beards for as long as I’ve known them, so as far as I’m concerned, they were born with beards and were meant to wear one. It takes a degree of work to keep a beard, to groom it properly and make it appear as though it belongs. If one just suddenly pubes one out of his face the way my Burning Man friends did, it looks a little less than desirable. THEIR beards were similar in nature to a wild horse. If you can’t learn to control it, get rid of it. Send it to a glue factory.
Well, one of my pube-beard friends DID in fact shave his fur off at some point, and I am happy about that, but like when parents argue, it’s just something that cannot be forgotten. I sincerely hope he burned it and spread its ashes over the Arctic Ocean.