I have always had an issue with authority. I don’t like people telling me what to do. I know, shocker right? As the last Tootsie roll fell from the hands of a reluctant, road weary candy shiller into the bucket of my children’s overflowing Halloween bucket, dudes all around nation grabbed their razor’s or electronic shavers and then put them down. As you may know by now, it is November and with that brings all kinds of initiatives for you to ignore. There is NaNoWriMo, which I will give a Nay No to, there is the official Halloween is over so people can start talking about the Holiday Which May Not be Named and then there is Movember, which is some random thing much like the ice bucket challenge is meant to bring awareness to something, but ends up making the spectacle more important than whatever the cause was. What they should have done is switched the months and done the ice bucket challenge in November, and make the beard growing thing happen in the summer. That would have proved who the real stalwart people were and not who just needed a beard to be warm in November or an ice bucket challenge just to cool off.
Regardless, it appears by the above picture (taken today, by the way) that I am participating in Movember. Let it be on record that “Nope I’m not” and you can quote me on that, because there are quotes around them. I am growing this hideous thing on my face for one reason. Because of a murder. Yes, a murder. I am going to either be a murderer, be murdered, or be a witness to one on Friday night. And I am looking forward to it! If I am lucky, the face above may soon say “Wanted: Dead or Alive, But Hopefully Dead”. I am participating in a Murder Mystery Party and I am a Bartender named Bartender Bart, which is ironic, because I’ve never had a drink in my life and wouldn’t know one to save my life. I guess it is a good thing that I will be a murderer. Actually, there is one thing that will be murdered for certain on Friday night.
I have to give bitter props to people that actually grow these things and then don’t immediately cut them off. I don’t know how they do it. There are, however, a few things that are less than bitter about beards.
They repel people. As a leading advocate and expert on several panels and associations such as: Wanting People to Get Off My Lawn(WP2GOML), Stay Out of My Cubicle and Don’t Talk To Me(SOOMC&DTTM), and Don’t Bother Me I’m Eating(DBMIE), this beard may come in handy in repeling people from me. Of course, my abrasive personality and bitter stare usually do the job, but this beard could possibly be one more level of security against People That Can’t Stand Facial Hair(PTCSFH).
I don’t have to shave. When being forced to leave the very comfy confines of my couch to go outside the house, questions always arise. Should I wear these sweatpants or another pair of sweatpants? Is bedhead allowed, should I run the comb through my hair once, or should I throw on a backwards hat? Is a shirt that is three days old acceptable, or do I have to throw on a shirt that I only wore twice okay? Do I have to shave? In this case, if confronted by the no shave thing I can just say it is for some cause or something.
You might be mistaken for someone else. In this case, you can hope that they think you are a serial killer and they will avoid you like the plague. That would be a good thing as it will help you with number 1 above.
Reasons why beard makes me bitter.
I might be mistaken for someone else. I might remind you of a kindly uncle or a dear old dad. Or someone famous that you idolize. If I do remind you of someone you like, then I am here for you. And by here for you, I mean I am here to bitterly disappoint you.
It itches. Beards itch regardless. But my skin is as sensitive as I am insensitive about people’s feelings. So it makes me skin crawl everytime I realize that I have it on my face. And I am reminded every moment of every day that it is on there. So it is as irritating as thousand of bees stinging your face, and then dying and being replaced by a thousand more bees to do the same thing over and over again until I shave this mutation off my face.
It makes me look old. I already look old. My face does a good enough job of that. If the face doesn’t tell you enough how old I am, that just ask my knees, or my back or my shoulder or my acid reflux. If those don’t tell you, then just ask me and I will complain like a 900 year old man on his deathbed. I just think the beard is yet another unnecessary and completely repetetive reminder of how old I am.
It hurts. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t work. (That one would have been a positive if they didn’t make me work anyways.) I couldn’t go swimming without getting it wet.
I hate hair. I already hate hair. My head even knows so it repels it. My mouth gets the heeby jeeby’s everytime it gets near. My skin crawls everytime a cat is near, because it is going to get shed on. If the rest of my body can’t stand hair, my face sure shouldn’t have to deal with it.
People look at you and ask questions. I go out of my way to avoid any attention or questions. I dress exactly middle of the ground and I only do middling work. And one of my least favorite things is being asked questions. Especially essay questions that I can’t answer no to. Why are you growing a beard? is not a yes or no question. So just don’t ask me.
So, No people in charge of Movember, I am not growing this beard for you. And No, anyone who asks, I will not be keeping this beard past Friday night. And yes, people who ask, Do you regret growing this beard instead of just buying a fake mustache for this murder on Friday? So there are your answers. Don’t ask anymore. You are not the boss of me, and even if you were, I wouldn’t listen to you because I have an issue with authority.
Bitter Bearded Ben