The beard. The face fuzz of fuzzy faceness. Ha, that’s fun to say. Especially when you’re drunk. What can I say, living next to a brewery does that to you. Especially when there’s one on the other side, too. And above. And below. By that point, you’re probably in denial you’re actually living in one. Beards are, of course, a contentious issue. In the olden days, the daughter of the King of Portugal was ordered to marry the King of Sicily. She didn’t want to. She was a Catholic, he was a Pagan. It was awkward. So she prayed to God to disfigure her so she could put him off and remain a virgin. So God gave her a beard. Her fiancé was most disgusted. Her father was most pissed. So he had her crucified. She became a patron saint. The patron saint of unhappily married women. So what does all this tell us? Be careful what you wish for. Beards can be deadly. For the love of God, don’t go to Portugal. And that a bearded woman on a cross is far funnier than it should be.
Pogonotrophy is the act of growing a beard. Try not to get it too confused with pornography, readers. A beard is a collection of hair that grows on the chin, upper lip, cheeks and neck of human beings and some non-human animals. Some women have them as well. Human men have beards as part of sexual selection. Women, and this has been conclusively proven and is now standard knowledge, find men with beards more attractive and therefore men with beards have a greater chance of furious mating and reproduction, ergo, it’s survival of the beardiest. Charles Darwin came up with this theory. I bet you think because of his magnificent beard, he ended up with a Victorian supermodel. He married his cousin. It either didn’t work for him or he really wasn’t good at chatting up girls in bars.
I have long, long luxurious Greek God-like hair. In my head I do, at least. I have never grown a beard. I either look like Jesus, a hippy, a man who hides in bushes, or a Zeus impersonator, which I think Greeks might find offensive. You’d get food stuck in it. Girls pretend to like them and support you in your beard growing, but like with many things, girls are just trying to make you happy and really don’t support you at all. And the idea that beards can keep one’s face warm is ridiculous. I live in North East England, barely three miles from the vicious North Sea. I’m used to the cold. Bring it on, baby. And I don’t think they’re manly. I think it’s a man with issues who grows a beard. Almost like a veil. “I’m a man, I have a beard and therefore I have promiscuous endeavours with every woman I meet!” No, you don’t. You’re a virgin. Get over yourself. I am a virgin, so I don’t want to be any more conscious of it. And sure, everyone hates shaving, but you know me. There’ll come that inevitable moment one Saturday morning, making my toast. I lean over and my long flowing beard falls into the toaster and catches fire. Sounds ridiculous? Seriously? Have you met me at all? It would definitively happen to me.
Beards are wonderful. From afar. If you want to grow one, you go for it son. Every man contemplates it. And many grow one. Not I, but many do. I’m far happier without one.
And that, my friends, is why I wouldn’t grow a beard.
Would you grow a beard, readers?
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