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Being Bearded Bites
The concluding drama of life with my beard.
In the final series on my beard, I'm not going to talk about people like Osama, Hemmingway, and Lincoln -- that all had beards. I'm going to talk instead, about my heightened senses.
My night vision increased dramatically. I could hear high pitched noises that were driving me insane. I realized why dogs sniffed everything in sight. I even wanted to stick my bearded face out the car window at speeds of up to 90 mph.
The beard had possessed me. It had an uncontrollable grip on me.
As I was driving to visit my brother in Julian, I stopped on the side of the road. I was scratching my beard like a madman; I ripped off my shirt, with buttons flying everywhere, and ran into a canyon. I chased a gazelle 50 yards before tackling it, and devouring the thing (and wondering why people flock to Julian for the apple pie).
As I walked back to the car, dripping sweat and blood, and wiping dirt from my beard, thoughts of shaving entered my mind. I thought of Bob Geldoff in The Wall, shaving off his nipples in the bathroom. I would sooner do that, then touch my mane of redish brown beard hair.
Upon my return, I was drawn to the beach in Coronado. I jumped into the cold water, and came out with a 2-foot spotted bass between my teeth. Other fisherman looked at me -- were they impressed? Or did they think I was nuts?
All the stares. All the comments.
I ran to the middle of the Coronado Bridge. I let out a yelp, that sounded like a shrieking werewolf on a fullmoon. I then leaped off.
I woke up on the shore, spitting out water. I felt my face. It was smooth as a babies bottom. The beard was gone. I laughed giddily, like a man who just escaped an asylum.
I lay there, letting the sun bask my skin, like Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption, when he finally made his escape.
I walked barefoot to the nearest watering hole, dying of thurst. As I walk in, the bouncer asks to see my I.D. Hearing a bouncer say those words, to me...a man in his 30s...I cried. I dropped to my knees and balled my eyes out. My youthful face has been reclaimed.
The bouncer said, "We don't let crazies in here. You're 86'd."
I walked away with a smile on my face for the first time in months.
(note to self: next time, Google first to see if Gazelle are even indigenous to this country)
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Being Bearded Bites
The concluding drama of life with my beard.
In the final series on my beard, I'm not going to talk about people like Osama, Hemmingway, and Lincoln -- that all had beards. I'm going to talk instead, about my heightened senses.
My night vision increased dramatically. I could hear high pitched noises that were driving me insane. I realized why dogs sniffed everything in sight. I even wanted to stick my bearded face out the car window at speeds of up to 90 mph.
The beard had possessed me. It had an uncontrollable grip on me.
As I was driving to visit my brother in Julian, I stopped on the side of the road. I was scratching my beard like a madman; I ripped off my shirt, with buttons flying everywhere, and ran into a canyon. I chased a gazelle 50 yards before tackling it, and devouring the thing (and wondering why people flock to Julian for the apple pie).
As I walked back to the car, dripping sweat and blood, and wiping dirt from my beard, thoughts of shaving entered my mind. I thought of Bob Geldoff in The Wall, shaving off his nipples in the bathroom. I would sooner do that, then touch my mane of redish brown beard hair.
Upon my return, I was drawn to the beach in Coronado. I jumped into the cold water, and came out with a 2-foot spotted bass between my teeth. Other fisherman looked at me -- were they impressed? Or did they think I was nuts?
All the stares. All the comments.
I ran to the middle of the Coronado Bridge. I let out a yelp, that sounded like a shrieking werewolf on a fullmoon. I then leaped off.
I woke up on the shore, spitting out water. I felt my face. It was smooth as a babies bottom. The beard was gone. I laughed giddily, like a man who just escaped an asylum.
I lay there, letting the sun bask my skin, like Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption, when he finally made his escape.
I walked barefoot to the nearest watering hole, dying of thurst. As I walk in, the bouncer asks to see my I.D. Hearing a bouncer say those words, to me...a man in his 30s...I cried. I dropped to my knees and balled my eyes out. My youthful face has been reclaimed.
The bouncer said, "We don't let crazies in here. You're 86'd."
I walked away with a smile on my face for the first time in months.
(note to self: next time, Google first to see if Gazelle are even indigenous to this country)
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