NOTES FROM THE DESK OF MY BEARD

I’ve had a beard for the better part of a decade. For me ceasing shaving was an assertion of freedom and self-reliance. After years in the restaurant industry and a few years waiting tables, where I often had to shave twice a day, it was time to let my freak flag fly. No more ironing my black and whites, no more feigning politeness to pain in the ass diners and definitely no more shaving. I was a writer now and if wanted to look like I crawled out from under a hollow log it was my right, damnit. (Of course, the beard had the added benefit of covering up the chin fat I was developing in my new sedentary profession, but that doesn’t sound nearly as lofty.)

In a sort of an odd way the beard has become my identifier. People ask about it, seem generally intrigued by it, and also tend to touch it without asking depending on how many drinks they’ve had. On the off occasions when I have shaved, people don’t recognize me. And shaving or not, I still have to eat—actually I love to eat, and having a fine beard means that food will at times get stuck in it, beverages will get dribbled in it and pungent aromas will get collected in it. This is a fact you must embrace. And so I’ve lived a decade of excessive napkin use, wife-implemented food embargos and understanding that I’ll never be able to casually sip out of someone else’s glass.

I don’t talk about the beard that much, it tends to be the strong silent type.  That is, until now. It has requested a guest post.

So here are my beard’s unedited thoughts on eating, beardness and life in general:

“When you share a drink with me. I’m going to put my mustache in it. Like wayyy in it. That’s just the way I do things and if you wanna share, you’re going to have to accept that.”

“Queso is when I value your hand-eye coordination.”

“S’mores: Nope.”

“Those pencil thin things on some people’s faces? Not beards. Don’t know what they are… but they’re definitely not beards.”

“Napkins… never enough napkins…”

“Yeah, yeah I get it you’re hip— the fixie, the girl jeans, your new beard. But lemme tell you something, Junior: judging by the last time you washed that thing? You’re on a one way ticket to Stinkville, kid.”

“Cleanliness is next to Godliness. God has a beard, he should know.”

“Avoid fondue parties… That actually goes for anybody, not just my beardren. Throw hot tubs on that list too, nothing good ever happens in those things.”

“I gotta tell you, I love soup.”

“Hummus, oh I could tell you some things about hummus.”

“Look, if you don’t want me to smell like garlic, don’t cook the garlic.”

“300. Ha ha, I get it. Now tell the abs to keep up with me.”

“I love sitting by the smoker. I love it so much, I’m going to remind your nostrils of it for days.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is virility…”

“Cut the reuben in half, then bite. That sauerkraut/ Russian dressing thing can be a real bastard.”

“Deviled eggs: open wide, jam the whole thing in, chew. They weren’t meant to be nibbled anyway.”

“Yeah, I’ve known some women—don’t trust any of them with scissors.”

“Be aware when you’re leaning way over the plate… Well, it just reminds of the joke about what the naked kid drug through the gravy.”

“A good grilled vegetable is amazing. I don’t know why everybody just assumes I’m all red meat, lumberjack stuff.”

“As far as declarations go “Bullshit!” is good, “Horseshit.” is better, and “Wolfshit?” is best.”

“Pickle juice sticks around awhile.”

“Chicken wings require a deft hand—but if some sauce does make it’s way into the ‘stache, we both know it’s just added flavor.”

“A little mustache wax never hurt anybody. Come to think of it, neither does a little specialty shampoo.”

“Why don’t I trim my mustache? Why don’t you shave your head, Lady?”

“I’m The Big Boy, if you’re looking to sell trimmers I suggest you head down the hall to the weird too-perfect stubble department, it’s next door to the ironic mustaches.”

“Kris Kristofferson’s song, “The Burden of Freedom”? Yeah, that was about me.”

“Lastly, whatever you do. Don’t ever, ever bleach me. I don’t care how many diners or drive-ins you’ve been to—you look like you just escaped from a strip club waxing salon.”