There's only one good thing about my attempt to grow a beard and mustache as my first week-long endeavor: My wife Linda isn't around for much of the week to see the horror that will be my face. She and Daniel are in Colorado Springs visiting my parents until Thursday. I should be working, except my company kindly decided to give me the rest of the year (and beyond) off.
However, I'm using the layoff to liberate my whiskers, free them from the razor's edge. I haven't shaved since I was let go Aug. 3, so, while I'm officially starting my shave-free week on Aug. 10, I have a running start. It's not going well based on my daughter Caitlin's reaction when I saw her yesterday: "Ewwww, what are you doing?"
Some people look good with facial hair, guys like Tom Selleck and Rollie Fingers. Some people--anyone with a Fu Manchu or Soul Patch--don't.
I'm one of those people who should never grow facial hair. On past rare occasions when I've grown a mustache to see how cool I'd look, I ended up resembling Jeff Foxworthy. Now with a week's worth of stubble, I look like a scruffy, big-headed Charlie Brown. Maybe I should hide this week...
Day 2
Looking at my face in the mirror this morning, I was reminded of something my son Daniel said to me when he was 5 or 6 and I'd gone unshaven for a few days. "I love you, Daddy, but I don't love your spiky skin."
I'm well beyond spiky and closer to furry 8 days into my Grizzly Adams experiment. My jawline also itches as if somehow the jaw knows this is not a good look for me. The jaw may be onto something.
The beard seems to age me by about 10 years, particularly since I have a distinct snowy white patch of hair on my chin. I also tend to rub my jaw and chin a lot more, as if I'm a college professor deep in thought. I'm not, of course; I'm most often thinking, "Should I eat some potato chips now or later? Or both?"
Day 3
Caitlin, my Food Network aficionado, came over and made me a lunch of pasta with homemade sauce. Then, in ways only kids can, she ever-so-politely insulted me.
"You look funny, kind of like a caveman," she said. "It doesn't look good."
Of course, she's right. But where's the love from kids these days?
I've grown more accustomed to the politeness and turn-a-blind-eye approach of my friends. I had dinner with Tim and Colleen Phelan Monday night and they didn't have a bad word to say. My next-door neighbors, Dave and Kristen Leach did the same today, bypassing judgment for shoulder shrugs, with Dave saying, "Why not grow it--you have some time off?"
Not high praise for the Geico caveman, but certainly a little softer than the crazy things kids say.
Tomorrow, the gloves come off: it's poker night with the guys. Showing up with a throw rug on my face is like punching Mike Tyson and asking what he's gonna do about it.
Days 4 & 5
Linda and Daniel finally got a chance to see the salt-and-pepper skunk growing on my face and what do you know ... they like it. Well, not at first.
When I picked them up from the airport, Linda couldn't stop laughing as she sized it up, hoping perhaps it was just a removable joke beard. If only.
I asked Daniel if he noticed anything different about me, and he revealed the extraordinary powers of observation he inherited from me. "Nothing, Daddy. Did you get a haircut?"
Linda eventually decided she liked it, all except for the kissing part. Here, the beard is less like a skunk and more like a porcupine. Daniel quickly moved on from the import of the beard: "Can we get McDonald's?"
Later, it was off to poker night with the guys where the abuse was surprisingly minimal. I was treated more like a kindly uncle who shows up 2 hours early for a party because he got the time wrong. "It's OK, but how long are you keeping it?" "It's good to try it once in a while."
The underlying implication: Nice try, now get rid of it. Or as Phil said announcing the hand as he dealt, "Five-card stud, nothing's wild except John's beard." For once, Phil was both funny and right about something--at least the beard is good for that.
Days 6 & 7
I got the silent treatment from my mother-in-law to start the weekend. And that was her way of being nice.
About 10 minutes into our weekend visit with Joan, I realized she hadn't said anything about the bath mat resting on my face. So when I said something clever and subtle like, "You haven't said anything about the beard," she politely laughed and hee-heed and talked about what we should have to eat.
I was getting the old-school treatment from the 1920s-era-born lady: If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. And she worked hard all weekend to stick to the idea.
At her house I also recovered my first leftover food particle stuck in my beard; a stray potato chip crumb found about 10 minutes after I'd been eating. I tried to see if my beard was like Velcro, but all I ended up doing was tossing food at my own face. Not brilliant, but not an altogether bad way to pass the time.
As we were leaving Sunday, the toe-thong broke on my flip-flop, leaving me with just a flop. Which could also describe my beard-growing week. My mirrored reflection reminded me once again that beards and mustaches look best on people who can't pass for Charlie Brown.
Want proof? Here's the full beard, the goatee, the mustache I stole from Jeff Foxworthy, and then there was none.
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