On Growing a Beard
What is this and how have I got here? You snuck up on me you beard. I didn’t set out to create you. Rather I wanted a rock to sculpt from. I fancied myself the joker seeking a platform for yet another fantastic facial hair joke. I thought, maybe I’ll carve some wicked sideburns and a mustache. Everyone will laugh for a week and I’ll be through with you. But no, you had to be bushy and commanding. I feel like you have overpowered me. You’ve transformed me into a morose thinker when I wanted to be a johnny come lately jokester. You beat me to the punch and now I’ve got to live with you.
Really it would have been okay had you left the rest of my life alone but no. You had to be big and bushy, flaming furious red. Now I’m thinking I ought to grow out the rest of the hair on my dome. Why would you do this to me? I’ll never get laid with this raggedy bush on my face and yet, I’m drawn to you. It feels good to run my hands through your raspy mane. Oh how you torment me so! Why did you ever come into my life? Don’t you know I drool in my sleep? Can’t you see the complications?
Now, when I wake up in the morning, the first order of business is to shampoo you. I thought we would be friends. And yet I suppose we are. When I don my bicycle in the morning you keep my face warm. I cannot deny you that. And of course there are the comments. “are you growing a beard?” The masses have taken notice. You’ve got me between a rock and a hard place you goddamned beard you.
En guard!
Chris,
it appears that, in your search for a rock to sculpt from, you have discovered something entirely different–a talking rock that lives on your face. I don’t think that mooshie mooshie rock-face has the kind of sticking-ness as my unfortunate nickname, but I’ll give it a try, for you.
I admire your beard related entry and the way that it acknowledges the new companion in your life. And why should you worry about getting laid when you know of the faithfulness of your talking rock-beard? You can replace your lonely nights of microwave burritos with evenings of passionate stroking by the fireplace. Five, six, seven, maybe even ten fingers are appropriate for the level of intimacy you are bound to develop with your companion.
I took a creative writing class a few semesters ago. One student in that class decided to write one of those anthropomorphic stories about her cat. While I’m not sure I believe in ascribing human-like characteristics to beards, I’ll go along with this one because I once heard my own beard call out to me. It said, “kill me, I fucking dare you, you ugly douche.” And I did. God damned beards are less than human in my opinion.
All the best,
Pork-face
You seem drunk with beardliness Kloewer; roaming about the wilderness, showing your beard to the young, the innocent, and the infirm. I have heard stories that your beard cured a small child of two that was struck down with the dancing mumbles. But beware! The amazing power of your suddenly hirsute face may be tempting, but don’t mistake your beard for mystical powers or dysentery and lyme disease will afflict you!
Has anyone ever told you that you could have been cast in Beowolf with surprisingly acute accuracy? Perhaps you should start: A) Sludge band where you play your guitar just like you do now, but really really really really slow, or like at 15 FPS. B) A creepy folk band where you eat babies on stage but play really purty music about unicorns and werewolves and stuff. Or maybe, just maybe, you can get a job being Batman! I heard that security firms are going to start hiring super-heroes in 2008, you should jump on that shit!