I am not a particularly burly man. I have always been skinny, and have sometimes been short as well. As I have said before, I have a decidedly youthful visage, and appear immature and inexperienced to any new acquaintances. In order to assert my obligatory male dominance amongst my peers, I have had to resort to wit and fast-talking, which never go down well amongst those whose fists do the thinking. And the punching.
During my late teens, I became increasingly aware that a be-haired face was not going to happen for me. My facial hair grew sparsely, not unlike a cactus, meaning that anything I tried to grow would look like a scruffy mess. As my friends’ faces bloomed in masculine glory, and girls flocked to run their fingers through those wild facial forests, I watched on, with a bald, cold, chilly chin.1
There had to be a solution. I stroked my chin in thought, but that only reminded me of how little hair grew there, so I gave up.
Unfortunately however, the need to assert my aforementioned masculine authority and power is ever-prevalent in our status-obsessed, aggro-rewarding culture, where entire genres of music can be based around the three ideals of accumulating wealth, disrespecting women and murdering to death with guns anyone who suggests otherwise, and where Michael Bay can become a statistically successful director.2
How will I ever subjugate women with my cactus-chin? What will happen should those ladyfolk go unsubjugated!? They might realise that the ridiculous expectations us blokefolk have set for them are needless fabrications! And then we’re all shafted!
And what should happen come November, when gentlemen everywhere grow a mo’ to show they know about the woe of their bros with cancer. Yo.3 I’ve written before about how concerned I am about cancer, but I’m physically unable to show support facially, which just makes me look evil. ‘Look at that git, not caring about our noble cause. The bare-faced cheek!’4
If I was able, I would grow a full moustache, to both assert myself and appear distinctive and British and fun. On special occasions (Weddings, Summer Fêtes, Regattas, National Kite Flying Day (Feb 8th) etc.) I would trim it to a thin line with ends that I can twiddle, so that I can look like a dandy cad caught trying to break into St. Trinians. I would ogle women and say ‘What am I doing here?’. And then I would be arrested.
I will never know the joy of the stages of shaving:
Most ladies will also never know the joy of a hairy face, but fortunately it isn’t expected of them.
I’ve learnt that it is a good idea to end blogs with a question, so I suppose I must vainly ask readers their thoughts on beards and the be-bearded. Do you have a beard? Do you find them attractive? Are they a hassle? Do you ever hide things in it?
1 I am so pleased with that sentence.
2 There are certain words that one should avoid using, less one cause offence, but Michael Bay perfectly embodies the word ‘retarded’. This is a man who has not progressed past the dawn of puberty for three decades.
‘Okay, Michael, what’s this new idea for a film you’ve got?’
‘Explosions! And cars! And space! And tithes! And space tithes!’
‘Any idea for a plot?’
‘Just give me the licence for a beloved kids show from the 80’s or 90’s!’
‘You’re not going to royally fuck it up are you?’
I didn’t play with most of his franchises as a child, but if he comes anywhere near Lego or the Wacky Races he’ll face my wrath. My wrath is a strongly worded letter of complaint. That’ll show him.
3 I couldn’t find a synonym for cancer that rhymed with ‘oh’, and in hindsight I’m glad because that would have been flippant and insensitive.
4 This is my favouritest pun what I done, and is dedicated to Go Jules Go, who is a fan of wordplay. BIG SHOUT OUT. If you would like a pun dedicated to you,
you’re as big a loser as I am please leave a comment.
5 Not in that way.