Split Chins

I, like my Polish forebears, have a split chin. A cleft chin, if you like. This facial architecture allows for interesting dynamics when growing and trimming beards. 

First, the growth. As my hair grows, it seems to want to grow with a small indentation directly in the middle of my chin. Much like Lazar Wolf in Fiddler on the Roof, I find myself stroking the two protruding tuffs of hair. Grabbing the two offshoots and twisting them outward, I find myself wishing to cackle. Like an evil Hollywood archnemesis. Or something.

Second, the trimming involves a navigation skills of Luke Skywalker in the Death Star Trench. Failure to trim successfully will leave an uneven beard, which no doubt will result in the whole beard coming off. The ultimate defeat. As such, the cleft chin beard must be handled with utmost care. Nimbly do my hands go over the crevice in my face... preventing the ultimate in humiliation. Others, however, do not have the same issues. Thus, I give it to SBC, who has the opposite kind of chin... the more prominant kind. 

Neck Hair

Imagine sand paper. Now imagine sand paper on your skin. Now, imagine sand paper being rubbed over your skin with the force of fifty-thousand horses pulling a half-mile long concrete slab. You're only beginning to understand the pure, immistakable pain that is neck hair.

It's insidious. To leave the neck hair there is to invite wanton damage to one's neck. Few tell the tale, but an old Scotsman was said to have decapitated himself by turning his head too quick. His neck hair rubbed all the way through, and his head rolled. It was rumored that in the Inquisition one of their methods to keep the cost of execution down was to have men grow stubbly neck hair and then to make them look down too quickly. Their heads came off naturally.

Fellow men, remember to shave the neck hair. Unless you're going terminal with the whole beard. If that's the case, ignore my sage advice. Instead, grow it out. It'll only be a wonderous danger to others.

Follicide by Yank

It's a rare and brutal form of follicide when the hairs of the beard are actually pulled out from their moorings. The pain that accompanies this is akin to having your eyeballs skewered with toothpicks, but with a more lingering sensation.

Take this for instance: last night, we were at Scott's house, watching a movie. I had a rare moment of silliness swell up within my soul, and was acting baboonish while trying to kiss my wife. She began to laugh, and as I came in for the kiss, she (not paying attention and with her head thrown back in laughter) closed her mouth. Around my beard. Only a couple casualities resulted, but the effect was severe. After rubbing, jumping, and bashing my face into the wall (perhaps not that last one), the damage was still felt to the core of my face. Alas, men... let me warn you. Avoid the yanking death of a follicle, known as follicide by yank.

Bib Beard

New discoveries abound when you're growing a beard for the first time. Little things, like how annoying it can be to have a head cold with a beard. You can imagine. Or how much more seriously people take you. Doubt it? Grow a man-beard, you'll see.

Moments ago, I had another such discovery. My wife handed me a cup of water, and I rapidly downed it. Quite thirsty was I. And of course, as I tilted my head up, I realized I hadn't quite shaped my lips to the cup. I felt the water trickle down onto my lower lip and no doubt onto my shirt. That's what's happened every other time I've drank too fast. All over my nice Spurgeon hoodie. But not this time. To my amazement, when I looked down at my hoodie, there wasn't a drop of water on it. Like a sponge, my now-somewhat-thick beard soaked up the rebel liquid, squashing its insurgency against my rule over my hoodie. With one hand, I stroked the beard, and the water came off like a wet bear twisting in the wind. Pretty much awesome.

Follicide

Follicide: n. the act of killing a follicle. 

Yesterday evening, I took my razor and my Barbasol and began to splash water on my face. Then, liberally applying the Barbasol to my face, I began the work. The key is to start where the beard ends, and move away from it with the razor. Not towards the beard. 

Moving the razor slowly and carefully, I shaped and shaved the stubble, cleaning my face up. This was not by edict, but by choice. Please, don't be alarmed. The beard, in all its out-of-control glory, will remain. For now. When the work was done, the beard was nicely trimmed, still long. But then, the mirror revealed another abnormality: on my chin, a tuff of hair considerably longer then the rest. I will likely be commiting follicide again soon...

Great Beards of Fiddler on the Roof

Tevye's beard pretty much rocked.

Motel's beard grew bigger by the time the movie was over. Quite the baller for his lady.

Even the town people's beards obviously contributed to the overall amazingness of the movie.

Lazar Wolf has the best beard in the movie, honestly. Too bad he didn't get the girl; 'twas the only fluke in the movie.

Perchik also did what was necessary to get his lady. Crazy socialist that he was, he was still pretty cool. I think he should've had a random beard pop out of his face when he did this. The stubble semi-suffices.

Unevenness

Examining my facial hair tonight, I discovered an abnormally long hair. Well over twice the size of the remainder of my follicles. The debate began: snip it? Let it grow in all its resplendence? Or yank it out? I finally decided to let it stay, so that its brethren might see it as an example and grow to a similar stature.

So my Brent Belford folicle will stay, and hopefully by osmosis the other hairs will grow. Tonight, we're doing a special blog post: the Fiddler on the Roof Edition!

Mazel tov!

Welcome: part deux

During my two years in the Israeli foreign legion--during which time I was made to wear a beard, of course--the unique luster of my beard secured my involvement with an elite special ops group, known then as the Facial Follicle Freedom Front. F4 operated undercover in Western society, dulling razor blades, filling Barbasol canisters with Rogain, and spreading pro-beard propaganda via subliminal messages in Cosmopolitan. Although our efforts produced something of a renaissance of goatees, and other half-hearted attempts at masculinity, full-orbed beardity was never realized en masse.
The Front has since been disbanded and my term with the Legion is up. But the spirit of F4 lives on...in the Better Beards Blog. Gentlemen, our cause is no light thing. Will you join us?
This is nothing less than a call to arms...to beards...whatever. Ditch your razor, despise the kisslessness of your misguided wife, and hold your head up high: you're a man--a bearded man--and I salute you.