“Why am I in a pissy mood?” you ask. Because I haven’t shaved since September 7th
and strangers on the street are telling me I missed a spot when attending to my
morning titivation!
It’s not the opinion of strangers that authors my
angst. It’s the humiliating truth that
at sixty years of age, I fall behind most twenty-year olds in the production of
whiskers. My main assertion is that a
mane should befit a man’s mien.
(Hah! Three homonyms in one
sentence: Let’s see you top that, Brenda
Moguez; if that is your real name.)
Reason dictates that I am merely a victim of the genetic
dice-roll. I should consider myself
lucky I avoided the fate of my enate uncles who all sported the ever-popular
bozo. No, no comb over for me; short and
fuzzy every time. But I digress.
The true genesis of my unshaven state is a latent
realization that at my advanced age, I am not bound to subscribe to societal
dictates. If I choose not to shave and
the consequent patchwork stubble that resides on my cheeks and chin offends the
members of the population at large, so be it.
There is only one reason to shave and that is concern for ones level of
attractiveness. The days of submission to the desires of the
community at large are ended. I feel no
further impulse to please the masses with my previously handsome countenance
and alluring profile. I need be slave to
only one emotional driver, “I hate to shave!”
I have hated to shave from my very first bloodletting
experience. (See my blog post “Suave and
Debonair” from March 7th, 2013… yes, I’ve been at this for that
long.) There are probably only two readers out there who have seen me without a
mustache, but a mustache is no beard (See the blog post “The Zen of Mustachios”
from July 3rd, 2013.) A mustache
is a statement. Scraggly whiskers are a
surrender. Or, are they a victory? 
I can hear the synapses of the female reading audience
closing as I type, “Men have it so easy, they should try shaving their
legs!” Well ladies, let me assure you, I
have shaved my legs. No, there was no
gender identity crisis involved. As a
high-school football player with bad knees (that should have been an omen, but
young equals stupid) I had to shave my legs so the training staff could apply
joint bracing tape. And I aver that
shaving ones legs is far easier, less painful and less bloody that shaving ones
face. This is particularly true when you
are young and your skin is as tight as a drum.
But I digress.
There, you have it.
In a perfectly self-serving tack, I have opted to please my own sense of
need. I shall place my individual
interests above that of the community at large.
Thank you John Galt! (Yes,
Brenda, after twenty-some years I finally followed your advice and read the liturgy
of objectivism… thank you. (For those of
you wondering where you got off the train, Google “John Galt” and all will be
clear.)
And anyway, my barber calls it a beard… says she likes it…
trims it for free.
Next week, I will announce the winner of the “Name Dale’s
Beard” contest; so vote early and often.
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