Tuesday, December 3, 2013

The Taming of the Beard: A Letter to Beardnard

Whelp, November is over, which means the whole "No Shave" movement is, as well.  For those of you unaware of this strange ritual, No Shave November (also known as Noshember or Movember, which sounds like shit I would make up) essentially involves being super lazy, and just not shaving.  It's supposed to raise awareness of men's health issues, such as prostate cancer, and that's great.  There's all kinds of rules that you can follow, found here if you want to read them (my laziness told me not to, though).  I participated this year, though, I have to admit, it kinda felt like all those times I saw people "liking" some kind of cause on Facebook; it really didn't seem to do a damn, so eventually it just became an experiment in "How Mangled Can I Make my Face Look?"  Needless to say, after 31 straight days, it was a success:


Sexy, I know.  The strange pubic hair that grew for so long had me looking like a homeless werewolf's crotch, and felt about as great as rubbing my face against a homeless werewolf's crotch.  Alas, Moshovember or whatever it's called has come and gone, and with that, it is time to shave Beardnard (note: I called my beard Beardnard.  Forgive me.) and let it all go.  Before I did that, however, I decided to write him a letter and I thought I'd share it with you.  Why are you looking at me like?  Here it is:


December 1, 2013

My Dearest Beardnard:

     For the last month, I have grown you and come to know you as my own.  Since the beginning of November, when I lazily, as well possibly drunkenly, decided it would be the BEST idea to just not shave, you have developed and matured from a Brillo pad made of human hair to a hero and a friend.  It was so interesting seeing you grow over time, covering my chin and most recognizable facial features until I would be hard to identify at the city morgue.  You became a staple of me, a symbol of my inability to be a grown up and my revolt against certain grooming habits.  You made me a new man, one that looks like an old man who's seen too much to describe his own personal Hell.

Looks like I should've bought a van that says "FREE CANDY" on the side

     Oh, Beardnard, you were always there for me when I needed you.  You never judged, never complained; you just twisted and scratched all around, forming a similar shape to the ass end of a Scottish Terrier.  And we had some great times, as well, remember?  Like that time I found out about adventured for and drank Soda Shaq (go read that one if you haven't, kids.  Or not, jeez.)?  You were  right there for me, acting as a Flavor Saver as I lost my shit from the 72 grams of sugar I just guzzled.

Ah, memories

     Alas, Beardnard, it has come time for us to part ways.  For you see, you itch like a motherfucker, and the scratching and possible scars of any epidermis that was on my cheeks has made me lose my shit.  Also, when we're together, people won't stop starring and wondering if I live in a cardboard box off La Brea Ave.  I usually don't mind that, but when they started throwing things and said to get my shit together, I realized it was time for a change.

     You will be missed, but not forgotten, as I shave you into a goatee in a recreation of Douche(ier) Dre circa 2006:

Nattie Light and Fist Pumps Not Included

Followed by what I'm referring to from now on as "The Chin Toupée:"

Looks like my chin has been to the Fucking Bosley Institute or something

     I hope to make you a future subject of my PhotoShop exploits as I learn and become the best digital artist EVAR (more to come on that later).  I want you to know, Beardnard, that I am thankful to have had you.  I've never let this weird shrub on my face fully grow for more than week before this year, and when I finally let go, I had you to be there with me.  We've had our fun, my friend, but now we must part, and go our separate ways just like other great duos, like Laurel and Hardy, Sonny and Cher, or Bert and his slightly retarded lover, Ernie.

     Thank you for being everything I could hope a random beard could be.  And with this last tangle of these HORRIBLE CLIPPERS FUCK YOU, CLIPPERS, we say our goodbyes.  Good night, sweet prince.


(P.S.:  I think I may be pregnant with your secret beard love child.  I will nourish him and take care of him just as I took care of you.  Maybe I'll name him Bearnard, Jr.  Ah, that sounds fucking stupid)

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