Grow Big or Grow Home

My beard has been on death-row for the last few months; it just keeps getting pardoned. They say it shot a man in Reno.  Just to watch him die. 

At first I did it as a kind of joke, a testament to slovenliness. A tribute to the unkempt; a dedication to sustained inaction. But I've developed a strange sort of affection for it; it's grown on me. It's almost as if the beard has grown me. 

A beard makes you more keenly aware of how people look at you. Having a mass of gnarled pubic hair, the color of rust, hanging from your chin is the ultimate litmus test. If you doubt it, don't shave for a few months. I've had this beard long enough that I'd nearly forgotten the looks of condescension and derision, aspersions cast by passing eyes. There's a strong association between beards and uncleanliness in our culture. As if facial hair exists only as a symptom of homelessness. 

I will admit, there is something mildly repugnant about hair. Perhaps because it reminds us of our apely origins. But that kind of disdain is simply simian.

Some people want to change you. They want you to fit into their preconceived notions of propriety. To reinforce their version of truth. If you don't, if you are different, you are deemed a demon. A threat. It's amazing how petty people can be. To treat someone with hostility simply because of the way they've chosen to wear their hair, is a subtle form of bigotry. Not based on race, but instead on body adornment. Not based on what one has done, but on what one has failed to do. 

The best way to handle these sorts of people is to ask them if they're staring because it reminds them of their own pubic hair. Aghast, they'll stammer and express shock and disgust, but continue to prod them. Ask why they're embarrassed, why they view their genitalia as something shameful to be hidden. Exhort them to free Willy or liberate Lady Labia. Then ask them how it is that they're able to walk around without feeling dirty, while carrying piss-scented tumbleweed tucked away in their undies. 

You'll also hear remarks from alleged friends and associates. Their greater familiarity will grant them a sense of entitlement to voice their opinions, a responsibility to tell you like it is. They will say things like "when are you going to shave," "don't you think it's time to get rid of that beard," "how much longer are you going to let that thing grow?" Take note of the people who make these remarks. They are always the ones incapable of beardly bliss, whether from fear of trying or simple genetic inability. As they speak, in their eyes you will glimpse fear, jealousy, and hate.

To the unbearded, some too narcissistic and overly concerned with self image, others too strongly socialized for any deviation, the rest too reliant on social congruence and peer validation, all too fearful to muster a mane, to them I say "be fearless, not beardless."

From those who have beards, though, you begin to notice stoic nods of approval, drunken high-fives, acceptance into an age old brotherhood. Always an expression of recognition, community, appreciation. We fight the good fight, in silence, so you don't have to. And our numbers are always growing, even in death. 

For freedom of expression, for freedom from persecution. For freedom from scarves. For America.