There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum … it’s breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it. — Dr. Evil from the “Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery”
My facial hair has been the subject of a website poll and numerous comments from readers, friends as well a tourist from Yellowstone:
- “Dude, are you one of those guys from ‘Duck Dynasty‘? I’m totally putting you on my facebook page.”
- “Be careful. This is Oregon. Your going to get bagged and tagged for being mistaken for Bigfoot”
- “… when are you shaving/trimming the beard? Looking really burley”
- “I’ve got friends with massive beards, like the kind birds live in. They’re impressed with yours”
- “You look like the Grumpy Old Troll from Dora the Explorer“
- “Scott, that beard is getting impressive. I think you should shoot for the Aaron beard from Fast n Loud“
- “That is sooo disgusting”
I had no plans on cutting the beard until I got to northern California. Throughout Oregon, my facial hair could have placed me in the ranks of lumbermen, fisherman or slacker hipsters. Except for the later, they are all hard working groups and I’d be proud to be associated with them.
California was a different story entirely.
In northern California I noticed the abundance of dirty hippies. They were everywhere. Hanging out on the edge of towns with signs requesting rides or outside of stores holding signs imploring help in the form of cash or cookies. Moreover, I was getting looks like I was one of the great unwashed, rudderless masses proclaiming peace, love, and the benefits of hemp underwear.
Not wanting to disappoint our loyal readers, I did take the poll into consideration before taking action. John Q. Public was in favor of this author keeping some sort of facial hair (~65% vs. ~35% for shaving) but the style was uncertain. The result was almost a tie between the full beard and a waxed mustache. The compromise was a style known as the “Friendly Mutton Chops“, “Friendly” for short, or “Lemmy” after the Motörhead lead singer.
So now, my butt chin is on full display. Its first glimpse of the sun in months was in The Castro, which was oddly copacetic. I am confused less with the hippie or homeless guy thanks to Mike at Joe’s Barbershop and Juan for a fresh new Twilio shirt.
Juan relocated to the Bay Area from Houston several years ago and we caught up a few nights ago at the Tornado Pub. As the founding father of the Houston Wednesday Night Beer Committee (or as Sarah called it, “Man Country”), he was sorely missed.