My wife is away for a week on business, so I’ve done what all men do when they get a long stretch of time to themselves. I grew a beard.
Needless to say, I was envisioning a kind of Zach Galifianakis or Commander Riker situation: a thick and lustrous fuzz in which you could lose any number of small mammals, eventually finding their skeletons in a job interview a year later.
I assumed I’d be out there getting mistaken for Scroobius Pip or possibly one of the ZZ Top boys. When I heard the words, “Isn’t that… Charles Darwin?” I could consider the project a success.
Alas, in practice, my beard is not so impressive.
The result is more grandmotherly than I had hoped for.
A lifetime of drinking soya milk and eating lentil burgers has left me with more estrogen than is strictly necessary in a man, so my “beard” should be rather more accurately described here as “a hairy face”.
Part of the problem is that the beard grows in seemingly random clumps. While one area of my face is completely barren–as smooth as the back of my knee–another is tufting out dramatically, giving the impression I might have fallen handle-first onto a paint brush.
Smooth and empty in places, wildly shrubbed in others, my face is beginning to resemble a sand dune.
At least, if things become desperate, I know I could get a job lying on my back near the seafront to mark the boundary between the regular family beach and the bit where the nudists go.
Rather sadly, I noticed that a key bald spot is right beneath my nose. I will never be able to grow a Hitler Mustache.
You don’t know what you’ve got until you’ve had it taken away from you.
I shaved the beard off this morning in anticipation of Samara’s coming home. I didn’t want to open the door in anticipation of a kiss only to have her recoil in horror. “Fig. 92: the horrified recoil” is a maneuver best left until later in your marriage.
As I was shaving, it occurred to me that I’m actually rather lucky to have no hair growth beneath the nose. It’s a good thing that I can’t grow a Hitler-style ‘stache. If I ever want to go into politics, it would a positive credential.
I don’t know much about political campaigning, but I think it would be a bold move to step up to the podium with a Hitler mustache.
The balder you are beneath the nose, the further you’ll get in politics. Just look at David Cameron. He doesn’t have a single hair on his body, being a lizard and all, and he’s the Prime Minister of one of the realer countries!
If I could only grow the rest of the beard more evenly–a full beard minus the Hitler mustache–I’d be the anti-Fuhrer.
I could do everything the opposite of Hitler. I could be quiet and gentle. I could hardly invade Russia at all. I could have two testicles.
Some may say that the opposite of one testicle is actually minus one testicles, but I’m not sure how that would work. I doubt I’ll ever give birth to myself in a bunker beneath Berlin either, but you never know.
Best of all, I could make more Jews. My wife is Jewish, so we do at least have it in us to make one or two new Jews, but six million might be pushing it.
Still, a caper’s a caper. I’ll ask her when she gets in.