Week Eighteen: December 21st

(Bearder's Note: This being our last week of school until after the new year, there will now be a two-week interval before my next entry.)

Thus...

"The Bottom Line."

This beard, also known as "The Foundation," is to serve as the building-block from which a full-beard (or at least as full as the next two weeks will allow me) shall spring. Plus, what is a good beard if not doubly-named in the manner of many magazines' year-end double issues (a phenomenon I always viewed as the desperate make-up ploy after some editor's miscount. "Doug, we'd better make this next issue a double! The folks are bound to notice we promised them 53 issues this year, and I just realized there are only 52 weeks this year. How did that slip by me...?)

Even now, as I write in the wake of the intervening week, I have additional growth that probably surpasses The Burgeoning Beard. A solid start if I do say so myself.

Our final week of school, a disastrously-scheduled three day week culminating in a full day on the 23rd, saw most people in our building barely survive with patience intact. Some, suspiciously, did not "survive" at all (missing the last one or two days.) Being at the mercy of the high schools' final exam schedule, and the fact that they take the approach of the Chinese voters for NBA All-Stars--packing the box with representatives when the middle schools and elementaries stay home--we all get stuck with a series of full days despite the fact that the high schools, and their teachers, spend no more than a half day each day. I probably owe my full class roster on the final day solely to my sheer force of intimidation and scary, beardly nature. This is especially impressive considering that our annual (class) "Winter Parties" occurred on Tuesday. Either my out-sized scariness was to blame, or lots of folks were in my position and had enormous amounts of shopping to complete as of the 23rd, and it was far easier to do with no children in tow.

Now that Friday's tribute to capitalistic spending sprees has passed, and the floor to our daughters' room has not seen the light from its one open window shade in days, we are ready to move on. No longer shall I feel as though Target will begin charging us rent for loitering so long within their confines.

At the very least, the Bottom Line will keep my chin and jaw warm in these now snowy conditions. To that end, it has already been a success: I returned from a run on Christmas Day with a spit icicle dangling from my lower left jawbone, clinging firmly to the patch of hair now growing there.

Ah, tis the season.

Week Seventeen: December 14th

Sadly, I did not keep my hair like this all week. You had to know "The King" would pay a visit at some point during this homage to all things hairy. Far be it from me to play it straight in my tribute. My Blue Christmas looks more like the Can-Do-Without-This Christmas look. So much for my ability to morph into various characters each day. The lady-grabbing lip curl of the man himself translates into a semi-disgusted look on my face. Oh well. I was always far more convincing looking like a skeptic, especially when it comes to being skeptical of myself.

The other nice thing about this look was that I could finally trim the 'burns held over from the Van Buren. Good Lord, those babies were driving me nuts! So thick were they that every time I smiled (which is approximately once every few seconds) the longer hairs would poke into my ears. I have enough worry about old-man ear-hairs without several thousand reminders of my advancing age, and impending appearance of hair everywhere, each day.

Maybe I'll just start frying some bananas and peanut butter for lunch and taking the girls with me on my voyage to hardened arteries.

Week Sixteen: December 7th

Taking it to the Top Shelf. That's what this week's entry was all about. Strange, again, to reveal my chin, as so many people, including my own two daughters, never see it. The sweet 'stache kept me laughing throughout the week. It wasn't long enough to irritate my nose (all the reason not to grow one of those Walrus-specials) and it was short enough to forget about it altogether. Only in restrooms or car mirrors would I catch a glimpse of the lip-worm and shake my head at its ludicrous appearance.

Strangely, several of my students noticed this look, commenting particularly on the mustache. The first one to mention anything was my student just returning from a month overseas. These were the second words out of his mouth: "Ooh, nice. You are growing a mustache and beard, Mr. Chisholm?"

Later, as he pointed it out again, one of his classmates kindly pointed out the fact that HE too was growing a mustache. The boy turned to the other and said, "Yeah, I just got back from vacation, I hadn't thought about shaving while I was away." Sadly, he was serious. What are they feeding these fourth graders?

Week Fifteen: November 30th

Strangely itchy, yet strangely satisfying. That is how I could describe these chops cut from the cloth of Martin Van Buren.

Why one would offer up two hair-kickstands formed in the mold of our lesser-known 8th President is a curious tale. For more on him, including the photo I was wary to post here, search Martin Van Buren and visit the White House archives website--you will not be disappointed. Suffice it to say, I am jealous. Someday....



During the summer, as I was tinkering with beards, I stumbled upon a sweet set of choppers similar to these. One of my fellow employees inquired about my aspirations to become Van Buren, albeit, not in so many words. Knowing little of the man, and even less of his facial hair, I conducted several searches and learned a great deal, concluding my search with the image of his amazing chops forever seared in my memory.

So, of course, how better to honor his 'burns than to bridge the gap between present and past: creating a strange connection between a comic-book mutant (last week) and a leader from 170 years ago? Wouldn't Marty VB be proud?

Equally proud were some former students of mine, visiting our school this week. Every year, in early December, an elite squadron of 8th graders, playing in the orchestra, band or singing in the choir at the middle school, visit all the area elementaries and perform. The aim is two-fold: entertainment and information. While the remainder of the school is entertained by these "big people," the 5th grade sees an advertisement of sorts, as they offer these options to them for next year (when, they too, reach the big time.)

This was how I came to be surrounded by former students at the end of the assembly, regaling them with wisecracks and sarcasm (perhaps the only two things I do well.) In the midst of our recollections, one student cut in, "So, Mr. Chisholm, would you define those as Muttonchops?" Not one for straight answers, I turned to him and replied, "No, Tom, I believe these are actually sheep." At that moment, as in fourth grade, four years before, they were not quite sure what to make of the statement, or me.

One girl, tried to interject, in hopes of saving the day, "Well, Mr. Chisholm, those aren't exactly in style anymore." Oh, Susan, if there is one thing I would hope you learned from me all those years ago, it is that I am not in the least bit concerned with style. Anyone willing to sport these for a week, can also support that claim.