It must be said, albeit with extreme reluctance, that this could be, just might be, my first winter beard wherein it becomes speckled with the dreaded gray hairs that of which against I've long harbored a spastic paranoia. I'm not sure why that's the case since we've been told ad nauseum ever since the day we could crawl that a gray-bespeckled beard provides a distinguishing veneer of respectability and, dubiously on this point, mystery. The mystery part may have more to do with that awesome dude from the Dos Equis commercials. You know, that guy probably is the most interesting man alive. I'm not sure why, though. I can't believe I'm saying this, but only part of it can likely be attributed to his gray beard. But then again, his beard, we are told, apparently has more experience than the average man. I'm not one to question something said with such assurance as it is in that commercial, but come on. It's a beard, granted, but it's not like it's glorious. It's more one of those week-or-two-beards that popped up all of a sudden out of nowhere because some troglodyte on a red carpet somewhere decided it would be fashionable.
Anyway, back to the issue at hand. That guy on the Dos commercials is freaking interesting, but it does nothing to assuage my paranoia at having to stare in the mirror at gray hairs littering my beard every morning while wondering who that devilishly mysterious hombre is looking back.
30 September 2008
29 September 2008
After Dinner Mint
And by this, I am referring, of course, to the post-beard festivities. I mentioned earlier that I enjoy carving out a vicious mustache for a day or two before my face puts on its birthday suit. However, a very salient question was asked of me today, "What about going with mutton chops?" This remarkably capable individual recalled a couple years prior wherein I enjoyed a nice pair of mutton chops following my glorious beard. They hung with me like little buddies for nearly a month. While I encourage the mustache, and all the panache and sophistication that comes with one, carving out some wicked chops seems, also, like a very respectable and appreciably viable after dinner mint, so to speak. Take that for what it's worth.
26 September 2008
The Ceremony is About to Begin...Wake Up
Thank you for visiting my new humble home where I will soon exult in the glorious birth of my annual beard. The purpose of this site will be to chart, monitor, record, or whatever other verb is appropriate, the growth of my aforementioned beard, which will be arriving shortly. On to the task at hand. I'm, as yet, about two shaves away, and I measure shaves in weeks by the way, meaning, a shave a week, give or take. I'd likely have begun the embryonic stages of said beard-growth as long as a week ago, however my prior commitment of presiding over a wedding as the reverend necessarily requires a certain tact for which a tremendous beard does not adequately provide cover. That, and the fact that my dear friends likely do not want a glorious beard overshadowing their wedding photographs. Moving right along, as I eluded to, I'm about two shaves away from charting my growth over the last few months of the year. I intend to do this with weekly photos and the like that will carefully detail the growing process. I think the central reason behind this is simply to spread my joy for beards and the satisfaction I receive from growing one, with you, the audience. The fulfillment radiates the soul and rattles the bones. Why, you might ask? Well, because it takes a commitment. It's not something you do with wanton disregard for everything else. Instead, it's a means of enhancing everything else. Including, especially including, when enjoying a fine pint of Guinness. But that's an entirely different story. Maybe I'll get to it. Maybe I won't.
Another aspect of this site, and just possibly perhaps as meaningful, I will likely include guest-beard posts, friends of J, who, if the desire should arise wherein one would like to join the festivities, said beard-growing friend will be more than welcome to snap their own photo and offer comments regarding their own unique beard-growing experience. But that depends entirely, or nearly entirely upon the better halves of my friends. Some won't budge an inch, others are more forgiving, with the likely caveat of future concessions. But I'd prefer not to elaborate further on that last point because I am not entirely guilt-free on that avenue.
I figure I can put in about 2 or 3 months of serious beard-growing before my beautiful, charming, and wonderful wife, puts her foot down and says "Enough is enough. Shave that mofo already." I shall obediently oblige at that point, though not a moment sooner i confess. Though, truth be told, when that time arrives, I will undoubtedly carve out a mustache for a day or two. And it will likely only be a day or two because that's about all I can stand. I can't take myself too seriously looking in the mirror with one of those things. Not that I'm impugning them in any way; I most certainly am not. Rather, it's just a commentary on my own personal appearance while wearing one. But, and this is a big but wherein all bets are off, when the time comes when a little one will be joining the family of J, that little J will be entering the world, greeting his daddy, who will be wearing a magnificent mustache. The reasons for this are multiple, possibly, though, only two-fold. First, my dad had a mustache when I was but a pup. So did the dad's of all my friends. They all had them. There was something uniquely cool, and maybe kind of unsettling too, about that. Some of our dads kept them considerably longer than others, though. And when I say longer, I mean about 20 years longer. That's some serious mustache commitment right there. So the first reason can probably be narrowed down to nostalgia after that whole mess. The second reason is that there seems to not only be something uniquely cool about them, but there's something uniquely dadish about them, too. You can get away with that sort of thing when you're a dad it seems to me that you can't get away with at other times of your life. But maybe that's just me.
Now that my mustache tangent has concluded, I can get back to discussing the glorious beard that I shall soon grow. It began long ago and far, far away. The glorious time was one spent wandering aimlessly in Spain with nothing better to do. But that's not what led to that fantastic snapshot in time. Instead, it was a somewhat admittedly, um petty, shall we say, reason. Granted, at the age of 21, you're kind of still in that rebellious stage of life. My rebellion was to fight the man. You know, all those Spanish guys who wore, yes...a mustache. I wanted to one-up them. Two buddies and I threw caution to the wind and grew monsters for a couple months. A light trim here and there, but those things were awesome. We were the only ones we ever saw with glorious beards the entire time over there. Three werewolves parading down alleys at 4 in the morning in need of a beverage. Amazing. Liberating. Strangely satisfying. But ever since that remarkable original glorious beard-growing experience, I made a deal with myself to grow one each winter. And when the winter's up, with a tear forming in the corner of my eye, off it goes. But for now, the season soon approaches. Liberation and gloriousness await.
Until then...
Post Script: And yes...the title of this post was generously donated by Jim Morrison, who had a remarkably wonderful beard in his own right.
Another aspect of this site, and just possibly perhaps as meaningful, I will likely include guest-beard posts, friends of J, who, if the desire should arise wherein one would like to join the festivities, said beard-growing friend will be more than welcome to snap their own photo and offer comments regarding their own unique beard-growing experience. But that depends entirely, or nearly entirely upon the better halves of my friends. Some won't budge an inch, others are more forgiving, with the likely caveat of future concessions. But I'd prefer not to elaborate further on that last point because I am not entirely guilt-free on that avenue.
I figure I can put in about 2 or 3 months of serious beard-growing before my beautiful, charming, and wonderful wife, puts her foot down and says "Enough is enough. Shave that mofo already." I shall obediently oblige at that point, though not a moment sooner i confess. Though, truth be told, when that time arrives, I will undoubtedly carve out a mustache for a day or two. And it will likely only be a day or two because that's about all I can stand. I can't take myself too seriously looking in the mirror with one of those things. Not that I'm impugning them in any way; I most certainly am not. Rather, it's just a commentary on my own personal appearance while wearing one. But, and this is a big but wherein all bets are off, when the time comes when a little one will be joining the family of J, that little J will be entering the world, greeting his daddy, who will be wearing a magnificent mustache. The reasons for this are multiple, possibly, though, only two-fold. First, my dad had a mustache when I was but a pup. So did the dad's of all my friends. They all had them. There was something uniquely cool, and maybe kind of unsettling too, about that. Some of our dads kept them considerably longer than others, though. And when I say longer, I mean about 20 years longer. That's some serious mustache commitment right there. So the first reason can probably be narrowed down to nostalgia after that whole mess. The second reason is that there seems to not only be something uniquely cool about them, but there's something uniquely dadish about them, too. You can get away with that sort of thing when you're a dad it seems to me that you can't get away with at other times of your life. But maybe that's just me.
Now that my mustache tangent has concluded, I can get back to discussing the glorious beard that I shall soon grow. It began long ago and far, far away. The glorious time was one spent wandering aimlessly in Spain with nothing better to do. But that's not what led to that fantastic snapshot in time. Instead, it was a somewhat admittedly, um petty, shall we say, reason. Granted, at the age of 21, you're kind of still in that rebellious stage of life. My rebellion was to fight the man. You know, all those Spanish guys who wore, yes...a mustache. I wanted to one-up them. Two buddies and I threw caution to the wind and grew monsters for a couple months. A light trim here and there, but those things were awesome. We were the only ones we ever saw with glorious beards the entire time over there. Three werewolves parading down alleys at 4 in the morning in need of a beverage. Amazing. Liberating. Strangely satisfying. But ever since that remarkable original glorious beard-growing experience, I made a deal with myself to grow one each winter. And when the winter's up, with a tear forming in the corner of my eye, off it goes. But for now, the season soon approaches. Liberation and gloriousness await.
Until then...
Post Script: And yes...the title of this post was generously donated by Jim Morrison, who had a remarkably wonderful beard in his own right.
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