Mondayitis – To beard or not to beard?
I awoke today to find myself in the middle of an existential crisis, which is typical for a Monday.
While the torrential rain poured down upon us, washing the very joy from our souls (actually I quite like it when it rains) I dragged myself from my bed and went to the bathroom convinced, as always, that fate would spit in my coffee once more and that the water heater’s pilot light would have gone out in the gale, leaving me to have a cold shower on a Monday.
But before I stepped into the shower I turned my myopic gaze towards the mirror.
There it was again, as it has been for the last 5 years….
Now grown to immense proportions through a combination of neglect and a strange underlying fascination as to exactly how large it could grow, this beard and accompanying moustache have now become the defining feature of my face.
How did it all begin? How has it come to this?
I first realised that perhaps my beard was getting out of control when I recently travelled overseas.
My passport photo, taken pre-beard, clearly shows what appears to be a clean shaven melon-shaped object with human features.
Now I would assume that if one attached a fake beard to a melon one would still be able to recognise the underlying object as a melon, but I fear that my beard has become so huge, such a thing of its own, that my very personality is becoming lost in it. Every airport security check became a nightmare as I had to bear the scrutiny of the incredulous officials who could see no resemblance between my current self and the earnest grapefruit person on the passport.
I had to stand there while they searched desperately for some identifiable feature and even my eyelashes (which many have remarked are peculiarly long and thick) failed to spark any recognition despite my pointed batting. At last they just gave up and let me through.
The genesis of my current outgrowth can be found in Paris where the Parisian male seems to be particularly adept at producing facial hair. I suppose as I wandered down the Rue Rivoli something whispered in my heart that perhaps I had found my cultural roots, for growing hair is one of my few genuine talents. So I threw away my razor and let nature take its course.
“At least”, thought I “If I cannot have a French accent or a distinctively Gallic shrug, I can have a beard.”
Firstly I was delighted to find that the beard covered a multitude of chins. I have no idea know how many lurk beneath the undergrowth. I also found that my face lost the melon like quality and took on a silhouette that implied a manly jaw lurking within. I also observed that the Frenchman’s facial hair presents a certain fascination for women, so my theory, to which I still desperately subscribe, is that if designer stubble produces uncontrollable thrills in the female person, just think of what a full –blown bushranger facial hedge must do!
Now it is 5 years since the first blue fuzz appeared and I am yet to be swamped with adoring females. I am disturbed to discover that the colour has insisted on growing in a striped pattern not dissimilar to a skunk with none of the salt and pepper, George Clooney quality that I hoped it would. Oblique references and not so oblique insults involving “Santa, hipsters and Pepe le Pew” are creeping in…
So here I am on a Monday wondering, with that poor mentally disturbed Hamlet