Sharing news of Umbrage Universal here at H&Q brought froth: a comment (OR brought forth a comment; your choice) , followed by a correction of a typo in the earlier comment, from a girl I’ve not read since I banned her from commenting on Honey & Quinine. She repeated her complaint she had sent in earlier days at H&Q, and I promptly banned her again. It doesn’t end there.
I banned her, not because she was anonymous. Postings by what I called “anonymites” used to burn my hindquarters when I moderated a forum called Writers Round Table, but as #43 might say, “I’m've growed up sin zen.” Alexander Hamilton and Ben Franklin used to write letters to the editors anonymously, but so did Carrot Top (I think), Anyhoo, I banned her because her terse snips did not advance the blog, flatter the blog if you will. I’ve given this matter some thought since then, and I’ve decided part of what she said is valid. That was the point about shaving.
Last night I cut the middle of my van Dyke from my chin, resulting in a biker’s Fu Man Chu look that dangled down an inch below where my chin quit. This morning, I decided that the rest of my grizzled countenance was not served by that look, so I cut off the dangling parts, and after an hour in the office . . . . . . I removed the rest of the hair south of my nose. Now I look like a college kid: a 60-year-old college kid attending a small central Illinois college in 1965. The resemblance is uncanny.
Sometimes a fellow needs to do what’s best for him, even when nameless antagonists urge him to do it. It’s like even when your PARENTS tell you to put on your boots before going out and playing in the snow. . . . . . you should put on your boots.
Facial hair disgusted my dad, especially when he saw it on men. He considered beards unhealthy harbors of germs and bacteria. When I asked him why Grant and Lee didn’t die of complications resulting from beard infections, he had no reply. He was right from his side, and I was right from mine. As Bob Dylan once sang, we were “both just one-too-many mornings and a thousand miles behind.”
Besides, it’s getting hot. I don’t need the chinsulation. Instead of twiddling with my beard when I’m listless, I can always pick my nose instead.
The beard was not the point, really. The board of education hired me to substitute teach students. If there were anything portentous in my carriage, we would not have become so mutually blessed. Something about me, to those fine people and a few thousand sprouts I’ve encountered, transcended whiskers. The point was that it’s summer.
Encountering a person with a beard in summer — especially on a fellow — is like observing a person wearing rubber boots in June. It just seems “out of season,” somehow.
I could apply for work with the Illinois State Police or the Republican Party now with my face in its new condition. Not that either would have me, you understand.
The beard is gone.
I’m cool with that.
Live long . . . . . . . . . and proper.
