Facial fuzz is for the team In the past, I have entertained thoughts of growing facial hair, and even attempted it a couple of times. But I’ve never had an excuse that was foolproof enough to satisfy the person past whom I must — if I hope to maintain a peaceful household — run all my personal grooming decisions.
There was the neck injury from soccer. My explanation was that it was too painful to crane my neck this way and that as I shaved those hard-to-reach spots. It didn’t take much to notice that I was still somehow managing to shave the hard-to-reach spots that weren’t part of my planned goatee/handlebar hybrid.
Then there was the trip to Europe. “I want to keep my luggage to a minimum. Every little bit helps, so I’m leaving my shaving supplies behind.”
The trouble is that I’m no Grizzly Adams. Our trip to Europe lasted two weeks. The time change must have played havoc with my facial follicles because, by the time we made it back through security at Pearson Airport, I didn’t have much more than a five o’clock shadow.
“Looks like you haven’t shaved in a couple of days,” my travelling-mate commented.
It became obvious that, if I were to succeed in securing permission to grow a beard, I would need two things: a fail-safe excuse and time.
Then it occurred to me: the time-honoured Canadian tradition of the “playoff beard.”
Unfortunately, as an Edmonton Oiler fan who lives within the sphere of influence of the Toronto Maple Leafs, it became immediately clear that this will not be an option for the foreseeable future. If things remain unchanged, the only way to secure any fuzz-growing time from these two teams is to grow a beard UNTIL they qualify for the playoffs. But this is a questionable bastardization of the tradition; and, besides, if I wait THAT long to shave, they may start calling me Methuselah.
Luckily, this hockey season, I’ve taken up coaching a Local League girls’ team. None of them, it appears, are capable of growing their own playoff beard. So, as a form of motivation to try their hardest in the final weeks of the regular schedule and into the playoffs, I pledged to resist shaving.
I was aided in my motivation by ill-advised facial hair journeys undertaken recently by two high-profile men, both of whom have built strong reputations for their physical attractiveness. First, on the cover of a magazine, I saw a photo of overly-bearded singer Sting. While I can accurately point out the increased growth of hair on my chin effectively balances out the fact that I’m gradually becoming less and less able to grow hair on top of my head, Sting has no such excuse. The thick mat of fur on his chest and extending to other parts clearly proves that his face — as fully-covered as it is in the photo — is not the optimum place for him to concentrate his efforts if he wants to keep looking young.
Then, movie star Brad Pitt began subjecting everyone within eye-shot to the rather alarming sight of a goat-like appendage tied up with used rubber bands.
“I have to seize the opportunity,” I declared, after seeing photos of the two stars. “This is the only chance I’ll ever get to look better than both Brad Pitt and Sting.”
Reaction to my new look has been, in keeping with the speed of growth, slow to develop. To the eyes alone, the reaction from men is universal: they rub their chin and smile. If they like it, they say, “Ni-i-ice.” If not, they come up with some variation of a reminder to shave.
Among women, apparently, there are more who like facial hair than those who do not. My “Relationships for (Male) Dummies” book informs me, however, that women often say one thing and mean another. And I suspect they only like facial hair if it’s the right version of facial hair.
On several occasions, a female acquaintance said, “I wish my husband could grow a beard.” So far, they have almost universally managed to keep the sarcasm out of their voices, leaving me to wonder if they really mean “I like your beard,” or if they really mean, “You’re just like my husband; you can’t grow a beard either.”
One newspaper colleague, with whom I have worked for many years, saw the beard for the first time after it could no longer be confused for a week’s worth of neglected grooming. She walked up to me, leaned further into my personal space than she has ever been (aside from Christmas parties) and inquired, “What IS that?” After some joking, she left the room and I went to the bathroom mirror. I couldn’t decide if she meant, “What is that on your face?” or “What is that little extra bit of hair between your bottom lip and the spot where the real beard starts?”
I went home and shaved that little extra bit of hair, and hoped for the best.
Oh, and I again repeated my moustache mantra: “It’s for the team, honey. It’s for the team.”