It’s ironic. I get that, now.
Yesterday, I asked for hot fresh blog topics. And Andrea said that she wanted me to write about beard grooming techniques. As extensively as I can.
Somewhere, the universe is giggling so hard it’s peeing its cosmic corduroys.
For beard grooming purposes, I use a beard trimmer. Most beard trimmers are assy pants — I like one that’s adjustable on the razor, not on the “comb” attachment, and I like one that gives you a wide range of lengths. Some give you nonsense for length options — no, silly beard trimmer, 6mm is not a goddamn beard. That’s just stubble with a God complex is all. I’m a man. I need a manly cutter.
This isn’t Bonsai. I need a hedge trimmer, goddamnit.
Yesterday, I noted that my beard was getting a little out of control. It was like a wild jungle. It was like the floor of a hair salon. It was like a 1970s era porn spread.
So, I fired up the ol’ beard trimmer, I clicked the setting into place — I go top of the pops, somewhere between an 8 and a 9 — and I pressed the shaver up against by chin — brrrrrbbbbbbt —
And the trimmer broke.
What’s critical is the way it broke.
The whoosit-majigger holding the comb in place went south. Which means the comb collapsed all the way back to the trimmer. Which means that the razor was suddenly at the tippity-toppity of the device.
Which means I shaved a ditch into my chin beard.
I mean, right to the damn skin.
Dug a trench.
Clear-cut the forest.
Shaved the cat.
So, I stood there, oddly fascinated by the sudden dip in Beard Power suffered (Systems Operating at… 80% Beard Power… Facial Hair Capacity Damaged… Alert, Alert, Awoooga, Awooga, Powering… Doooooowwwwwnnn…). And my first and most moronic instinct was, “Holy shit. I guess I have to just shave the whole thing.”
Which is ridiculous.
And that’s why I didn’t engage that ridiculous course of action. I instead reevaluated and thought, “Okay, I’ve never rocked the so-called ‘Friendly Mutton Chops‘ look before, so that’s what I’m going to do.” I finished buzzing the chin and left the rest of my beard on my face. And now I look like some kind of mad pirate hobo, some froth-mouthed Meth King of the High Hobo Seas. Which is fine.
I mean, it’s not fine for my wife, who in our many years together has never once glimpsed my chin. Hell, I haven’t seen my chin in… well, damn, since college. I think it’s been 14-15 years since my chin has been exposed to the air. (For the record, it was pale like an untanned ass — a creepy, almost purple pale. Adds more weight to the meth mystique I’m rocking. Yeah. Who wants to get a piece of this sexy hobo?)
The wife is looking at me like I’m some kind of escaped criminal all of the sudden.
And not in a, “Ohh, what a sexy rogue” way, but in the, “My husband is going to murder me and eat my corpse. Probably after having sex with it. I’m married to Sawney Bean all of the damn sudden.”
Well, I’ll grow the chin whiskers back in and try to slowly reclaim my power. The hair on the top of my head slowly fritters away, but I believe that this is due to the incredible energy drain it takes for me to grow my beard at the speed it grows, which is way too fast. I was shaving every day in seventh grade. I’ve got more testosterone than I have blood. It’s why I punch elk and kick down trees.
It’s why my heart is going to explode soon.
In the meantime, I’ll slowly hem in the rampant beard jungle growing on the rest of my face, bringing it to balance with the burgeoning and returning chin magic.
Beards are all about balance, y’see.
Balance and improvisation.
Oh, and if you care to see the terrifying face of the Meth King of the Hobo High Seas…
Thar she blows: