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...Jon Nicholas...
ACWclub Founder
Gentle Reader: This is an autobiographical essay titled The Beard. It is a personal recollection of the author's experiences and observations regarding hirsuteness. The narrative is presented in a breezy, conversational style, that moves the story along without dwelling on anything important. There is virtually no plot line, therefore do not expect a surprising twist at the end. There is precious little character development. There is a liberal sprinkling of four-letter words used throughout, but the author has endeavored to also use many other words of varying lengths. There are no untimely deaths in this piece, though many occurred during the time period being discussed. Finally, the words "hirsute" or "hirsuteness" are not used at all below this paragraph, but probably should have been.
Some of the worst mistakes of my life have been haircuts. - Jim Morrison
I was born in the late 1940s, during what became known as the "Post-War Baby Boom." Maybe it was because all those returning servicemen had become accustomed to very short hair, maybe it was because Truman and Eisenhower didn't have much anyway, but short hair for men was the accepted style for many years to come. When I was a kid, my father would drag me to the barbershop for a "butch," or a "crewcut" or a "flat top." I was provided with a little jar of Butch Wax to make the slightly longer hair in front stand up. I'd use the goop in the jar once or twice, then purposely neglect my hair care as long as I could. When my hair started getting almost right, my parents could no longer ignore it and I'd be delivered back to the barbershop. Then the whole process repeated. By the way, very few boys in my peer group ever got through a whole jar of Butch Wax. Those who did were "strange" and risked being shunned by our miniature society. So things went until high school.
In high school hair was a means of group-identity. In my school boys were either "surfers" or "greasers." Those strange few Butch Wax junkies I just mentioned must have devolved into Greasers. They heavily oiled their hair and combed a waterfall in front and ducktail in back. You wouldn't want to touch a greaser's hair, and he would hurt you if you did accidentally touch it. These guys hung out in the Industrial Arts building discussing the nuances of enhanced carburetion and constructing concealable weapons. Surfers, on the other hand used nothing stronger than water on their hair, if they used anything at all. Naturally I was in the surfer group, having years before abandoned Butch Wax for good . It has to be noted that surfers didn't surf, at least I never knew anyone who surfed. No ocean nearby. It was more of a reference to using water as a hair preparation. It also must be noted that oil and water don't mix, but that's a story for another time.
The girls were also divided into two main hairstyle groups, combed and bobby pinned or teased and sprayed. I recall sitting behind Sue Jones in Social Studies. She must have had the highest hair in school, and it did look pretty good from the front. But from the back where I was, all I could see were all these little teased tangles that she could never manage to get brushed over smooth. On top of that, despite me being taller than average, I could barely see the blackboard through that massive blonde hedge of hers. That was the year I almost flunked Social Studies. Don't ask me any history questions from the Habsburg dynasty through World War II. From that year of high school to this day, I've always considered the combed look to be more practical and infinitely more attractive.
Then came the Beatles. Some of us in the surfer group immediately sensed an opportunity. We'd let our dorky butch haircuts grow long, learn to play guitar, be cool, be boss, be popular. The possibilities were endless. As it turned out, some musical talent was required for the guitar part, but at least we'd lose those dorky butch haircuts. I for one had major experience growing hair. All that seemed necessary was to skip a few of those periodic barbershop trips.
As it turned out, there arose a pretty major roadblock in my quest to become a cool surrogate Beatle: the Assistant Principal. Assistant Principals must have been put on this Earth to do all the school's dirty work, so the Real Principal could still be thought of as "a real swell guy whose door was always open if you just needed to talk." The hallway where some friends and I hung out before first period was just a few steps too close to the Assistant Principal's office.
"You look effeminate with that long hair. You should get it cut very soon or you'll risk being suspended." (In retrospect he may have been right. I probably did look a little effeminate, having yet to develop sufficient masculine features.) I was outraged. I held up the front cover of my Learn to Play Guitar Like the Beatles book.
"You think these guys look effeminate?" I countered. I was sure I had him there.
"Yes," he said. The argument was over just like that. It was back to the barbershop. But this time, no more butch cuts. Please!
Funny, but a couple years after graduation I had some reason to visit my old high school, and much to my surprise many of the boys were wearing their hair much longer than I could have ever gotten away with. I guess they must have hired a new Assistant Principal.
Remember how the title of this piece is The Beard? At some time in my later high school career my parents presented my with the gift of an electric shaver, presumably to remove the manly stubble from my face each morning. Sorry to say, but before that shaver died of old age, it only got a chance to remove a little soft peach fuzz now and then. OK, so my face was still learning how to grow a beard. Moving right along.
The dawn of the '70s brought six changes to my life: I got married, finished college, got my first real job and we very soon had a little one on the way. But I also became able to grow facial hair that was visible from farther away than just a couple inches. And I paid my very last visit to a barbershop! Apparently the ability to give haircuts is a secret skill passed from mother to daughter, for I have known many men who have forsaken the barber's chair for the at-home equivalent. I could finally grow my hair any way I wanted, and you know what, when it got down past collar length it looked like crap, curling and flipping up in all kinds of strange, unpredictable ways. So I eventually had to dial it back to a relatively conservative early '60s Beatles look. I must say that to this day I envy those rockers with the long, long, straight, straight hair.
OK, back to facial hair. I was able to manage a cute little mustache and longer sideburns. It was those sideburns that led me down the irreversible path to The Beard. You see, I could never quite manage to get those damn things even. Luckily for me, long muttonchop sideburns were in fashion, so all I needed do was lop them off even with my jaw line, and no one would ever guess I was shaving challenged. Well, one thing led to another, and before long the muttonchops had connected themselves up to that cute little mustache, making it a lot less cute, but at the same time, freeing me up from shaving a major swath of facial real estate.
By the late '70s I'd given up on electricity and gone to blades, and all I was shaving was the area below my lower lip, down around my chin and my neck below the jaw line. It occurred to me that each day (yes, it did eventually became daily) I was shaving approximately one-third of what a clean-shaven man would shave. And I never did get over being shaving challenged, because I frequently nicked myself. It occurred to me that I was at a kind of a crossroads. One road saw me nearly clean-shaven with many little red-dotted bits of toilet paper stuck on my face. The other road had me tossing my razor in the trash. It was down to this: pain or pleasure. You've already guessed the choice I made. A hint for those who just tuned in: the title of this piece is The Beard. To quote Dr. Seuss totally out of context, "It started in low. Then it started to grow." By 1980 I was the man with The Beard, and I've been the man with The Beard for almost thirty years. My wife is still my personal barber, and tells me I have very attractive eyes and nose.
That is my story as I choose to remember it. And now here I am, the sum of all the ages of my life, standing before my bathroom mirror, and staring back at me is this old gray-haired man. His hair is still a little too long, and it's getting really thin on top. But look at that luxurious beard, will you!
Warm as spring rain, smooth as a baby's butt, with gentle humor throughout. This could have been about me, or written by me. Interesting format that works well. Two thumbs up.
The writing is adequate, the tone like that of an informal conversation. A bit of humor here and there, but (as the author promised in the intro), not much to sneeze at.
I think this could have been a very funny (and better) piece if, instead of branching out into all the hair that grows upon the author's head, he had focused more on just his beard and his ensuing battles with a razor and his genes.
I don't know if this piece was really a trip down memory lane for the writer. (Maybe the writer was a long-suffering woman who had 'beard rash' on her face whenever her man kissed her?) But it certainly took me back to that era. My husband had a drooping black mustache when it was fashionable to have one. But being of small and slight stature, he didn't look like a movie star, more like Mexican Pete (ze bad bandit!) Fashion changed so he cultivated a beard which he wore for twenty years. Then he shaved it off and we both discovered he'd come to resemble his father in the meantime, when we weren't looking beneath the hair.
So back to this piece. It started me thinking; had me remembering. In effect it did what any piece of writing should; I fell into it and was carried along. Thanks for the memories....
There is a delightful sense of humor in this piece but it would have better fit the topic/title if the general history of the author's hairiness had been re-weighted to be less about his youthful head and more about his mature face.
P.2- ...Truman and Eisenhower didn't have much anyway" Drop the "anyway".
"short hair for men WOULD BE the accepted style..."
I didn't understand reference of the last 3 sentences.
P.3- I don't think the referrals back to the Butch Wax of the previous paragraph adds anything.
Can you make "No ocean nearby." into a complete sentence? The sentence before that is rather clumsy.
P.4- First sentence could be improved. You've said too much in the previous paragraph for "The girls were also..." to be be obvious and having their groups be "1 and 2 or 3 and 4" needs better punctuation to be clear without re-reading. This topic also wanders much too far from the story topic. Your entire story rambles off from here to where you recall us to The Beard in the 5th paragraph from the end. It just wasn't very interesting.
I think you could have created a very amusing reminiscence based on the movement of mustache and side-burns to cover your face, and your resistance to barbers. Take the last 3 paragraphs and go from there! Good wit and humor but you need to reign it in.
These are also MY memories, from my time. I think you captured it well. I don't think the piece needed the disclaimer up front, and I've never cared for the word hirsute... for some reason it always reminds me of high brow academians holding a glass of wine. And those times were anything but high brow.
Over all, a nice entry.