The father of all beards, jolly old Saint Nicholas, has been my beard deity for quite some time now. I’ve been dreaming of long, luscious locks of chin moss since those days of innocence when I would mock shave with a plastic toothbrush holder.
Every Christmas Eve, after hanging my stocking with care, I’d go to bed, tossing and turning, in hopes of waking up to two things, courtesy of Santa himself: the pair of moon boots I had hand-selected directly from the Sears catalogue and a face full of fur.
I never did get the moon boots but the beard, to my relief, appeared a few years later.
I was absolutely enthralled by my hearty facial drape. It gave me an aura of manliness that my wall of Kelly Clarkson posters never, ever did. It acted as a protective barrier against nervous puppies and shady kittens. It also served as a great storage unit for knowledge and witty satirical jokes, and it kept my soft epidermis from weathering under the (often harsh) climate. Most predominantly, however, it garnered a multitude of compliments from lads and ladies alike.
Then, it happened: I courted a guy on the regular who gave me the ultimate ultimatum – him or the beard.
Needless to say I trimmed him from my life rather quickly, but the proposal shocked me into the reality that not everyone trusts ‘the beard.’
I get it. Really, I do. It’s unsightly, sometimes. It scratches your face when you move in on it. And, though I hate to say it, seeing a homeless bearded man tucking day-old oat bars from Starbucks into his greasy tangles for a late night snack does not add to the allure.
But, for the men who maintain the face mane, it becomes an essential limb.
For loving her jolly guy through the thick and the tangly, Mrs. Claus deserves the utmost praise. She realizes the dedication that goes into the growth. She deals with those scattered beard trimmings left behind on the sink, and in the toothbrush holder, and across the floor. She buys expensive creams to deal with the skin irritation that ensues every time she leans in for a smooch and she doesn’t get (too) annoyed by the multitude of empty pine-scented beard-oil bottles he leaves all over the house.
On top of all of that, she probably still considers the cookie crumbs lingering in his mustache to be rather endearing. She’s also tolerant of the fact that he uses twice the amount of conditioner that she does and definitely finds relief in knowing that the clogged shower drain isn’t her doing. For all I know, she could be comfortable braiding his beard while they cozily sit together in front of the fire.
Trusting the beard, like she does, is the ultimate testament of adoration in my humble opinion.
And, believe you me, the next guy I date will be the epitome of everything Mrs. Claus is, only, of course, with the heartiest facial hair around.
Feature image via.