Tuesday, July 17, 2012

For the Want of a Beard.

I am surrounded by facial hair.

My family and friends, on command, can grow glorious beards of magnanimous proportions, full of glory, honor, and old-timey epic adventurous grandeur.

I give you examples.

Meet Dustin. He's in a band. 

My Sunday School teacher, Jason. He grew this in ten minutes. 

Christion, who is going for the "I'm never shaving again" look. 

Jeremy, whose wife can't be shown on film. Something about drugs and witness protection.

And finally, the bestie. Kinman, aka Kid Funk. This also took ten minutes.

These beards are all fantastic in their own special ways. And then there's me, circa 2010, with about two months of pathetic growth on my face. 

The Missus called me "Patches" for three weeks until I broke down and shaved. 

There is only one thing that picture brings to mind.



All I want in life right now is to be able to grow a thick, luscious, manly, and sexy beard. One that The Missus will run her fingers through and immediately be consumed with passion and romance and want to throw down wherever we are. One that inspires the lust and envy of other men wanting to be as manly as I. I want a beard that would make Abraham Lincoln proud, and I'm talking the real Abe, not this retarded vampire hunter in the movies right now. I hate Tim Burton. 

I want to be able to get lost in the snowy wilderness with a group of people and have them immediately elect me as a leader because my facial hair inspires mad confidence in my ability. I want that facial hair to help prove me innocent when all of those people eventually die because I know absolutely nothing about helping people survive in temperatures below sixty degrees. And I want that beard to shake the confidence of my cellmate who had sodomy on his mind until he saw the thick, coarse, and lustrous hair sprouting from all the follicles on my well-chisled and trial-hardened face. 

I want a Chuck Norris, George Clooney, Zach Galifianakas, Brian Wilson, Ron Swanson, Conan beard. I want people to stop in the street and say to their children, "Son, one day you might be as manly as that," or "Daughter, when you get older, fall in love with a man who has a beard like that one." 

I decided to get The Missus' opinion on what she would do to me if I could grow a truly amazing beard. I thought surely she would speak of things only to be repeated in sleazy books and Penthouse letters, but I was instead taken aback by her response. 

I am incapable of making my wife vomit. Except when I'm naked. 
So there you have it. Maybe I can't grow a beard, but one day, one day when I can grow stubble, I'll finally be "liked" by The Missus. Until then, I'll keep praying for puberty to head my way with something other than a face full of zits and ill-timed arousal. 

Wish me luck.