Week Thirteen: December 13th to 19th

In order to take flight, one needs some sort wing wing-like device or Da Vinci-esque apparatus. Due to my commitment to bearding excellence, and the recent push to ever-increasing facial hair lengths over the quest to win style points, I happily discovered this week's creation: "Take Flight."

Had I not allowed my facial mane to grow to such an extent, curling slightly under the jaw, I would not have happened upon a great hirsute accident. No doubt owing to my hard-sleeping patterns--I often press my pillow so hard with my face that the pillow creases do not shake from my skin until nearly three hours later (though maybe that has something to do with my older face...)--I often awaken with some strange snarls in the chin and jaw region. One day I spied what appeared to be wings on one side of my face, surprising myself with the fact that the hairs curling under my lower mandible had grown to such lengths without my knowledge. Surprising when you consider that my students give me a hard time because, as they say, "you are always playing with your beard."

Back when I was in late elementary school and early middle school, in the time when it was a proven fact that my mother did not relish getting us haircuts of any kind, my hair grew so far down the sides of my head that my slightly-poking out ears forced that hair out and away in the manner of wings. Though I did not approve of the look at the time--even a few years later, after discovering the fastest-talking mumble-barber in town who could shave a nice high-and-tight, I called that winged hairdo my Planet of the Apes look--I now celebrate it any time I see old photos of myself. My brother with the Dutch-Boy bowl-cut and I with my premature mop-top, finely parted down the middle. Who knew what our bearding future held?

Regardless, the wing on the side of my face that fateful morning prompted some facial mashing and beard-tugging to see if I could match it with a symmetrical design. Lo and behold, I could. And so we have the chance, at last, to Take Flight.

Week Twelve: December 6th to 12th

Pre-Week: Well, there really was no pre-week on this one because, as those few loyal followers out there may have noticed, it has been several weeks since I put The Mandible out there for public consumption. What followed was a "(blank)-it-all" week or so of anger and frustration during which I wanted to do little more than be angry. So, for those few of you who turn to this page for enjoyment, I apologize for the delay. Sadly, none of this anger stemmed from beard-related issues...if only!

If you followed The Beard Blog last year (so, three of you) then you'll recall I had a few weeks during the Spring when I let the beard go all kinds of backwoods mountain man and then followed with a beard called "National Beard Certification." That was all as I was completing a year-plus long project for National Board Certification for Teaching. It is a ridiculously long, time-intensive, life-encompassing process that allows you to do little else, especially if you are as obsessive about such achievement-oriented things as I am. I will not bore you with the details of the life-consumption of this process; suffice it to say, even with all that in mind, you know you are facing a somewhat-losing prospect, as about 40% of first-time candidates achieve certification. (And, very few people in the teaching profession even attempt it, so those committed enough to attempt it would surely be crushed by disappointment if they put in all the work and did not achieve it.)

As you may have guessed, I did not manage to make it. So, the day after conferences, I find my self in the troubling position of dealing with unbound anger, mostly at myself, and still the expectation that I teach Second Graders with happiness and patience. Somehow I managed that much--it wasn't their fault, after all.

So, long story short, I took some time away from this Blog, and all extraneous things, and sifted through the rage, only to return, because what better diversion than continuing to cultivate a flowing mane of facial hair? Stay tuned in week's to come...there will be changes!

Week Eleven: November 15th to 21st

Pre-Week: What better way to kick-off the Parent-Teacher Conference week than with a strong showing like The Mandible? This joint-contrivance between the husband and wife team who reside in our domicile will surely provide many discussion points, and no small measure of distraction during our frank discussions later this week.

I already have some heavy competition for next week's entry--perhaps not surprisingly, considering the proximity to Thanksgiving--but feel free to attack the post and my e-mail inbox (or even text messaging, for those precious few to know my cell phone number.) The deadline for next week's voting is Sunday, November 21st at 4 PM. See you out there!

Week in Review: Not much to report from the kids on this one, though they do enjoy making weekly recommendations for new animals and designs. Many former students, the alumni of last year's Beard Blog edition, return to my room before school at least once a week to check on the progress of my facial hair. Must make the teacher feel good to know he is contributing something to the interest of students at his school....

Week Ten: November 8th to 14th

Pre-Week: This week's entry, suggested by my friend Matt from Utah, is an homage to the somewhat-fallen Red Sox hero, Big Papi. Of course, many people will notice a slight difference over which I have little control, but I still find this representation to be fairly accurate. Not only that, but I get to spend the first two days of the week at a conference for teachers from around the state. Maybe they'll ask me to jump in the batting cage and drop some dingers on the hotel lobby.

Get your vote in for next week by Sunday, November 14th at 4:00 PM. Bonus: I have Parent-Teacher Conferences this week. I would ask you to be kind in your selections, but I believe that may fall on deaf ears. Have at it!

Week In Review: Perhaps because I was not wearing the Sox hat, few recognized my uncanny resemblance to the Papi himself. I wanted to step into the cage and launch a few PED-free bombs over the imaginary Green Monster just to show them what was what. No such luck, as I live nowhere near Fenway Park and would not be allowed on the field, with that horrible Babe Ruth baseball season to my credit. (For those whose ears the legend has not reached, I once trumped all comers--except two others on my own team--with what must have been a then-league record thirteen whiffs. I was Mark Reynolds before it was in vogue; which, presumably, would make my compatriots Ryan Howard and Adam Dunn: we three with none of their power but all of their big-swinging style.)

Still, this beard celebrated the re-upping of Ortiz with the Sox, just shortly before its facial incarnation. Good timing. Now, to work on my swing....

Week Nine: November 1st to 7th

Pre-Week: This look was actually a husband and wife, jointly-concocted iteration of now-distant memories from our late High School and College years. We present: The English Professor. Though I almost captured the imperious and aloof look so many of them wear as skin masks, I hardly did the clothing justice. After all, it is not easy to conjure an elbow-patched tweed jacket on a whim. If only....

Voting on next week's entry begins now. Feel free to e-mail me or post a comment on this blog page. The voting window closes on Sunday, November 7th at 4 PM. Don't be late!

Week in Review: Not surprisingly, this pretentious facial motif garnered little attention. It did allow me to build a stronger beard base for future weeks (and reach some of the bearding goals many loyal followers have laid out for me.) A few of my students groused about the lack of design, wondering where the river on my neck was and why I just grew a regular beard, so they are all-in on this game. My original idea was to have them do the voting, and that may yet turn out to be an enticing option. For now, I will continue to submit myself to the whims of the faithful few followers.

Week Eight: October 25th-31st

Pre-Week: With a lag in voting, and many suggestions requiring a stronger base from which to build, I elected to vote in the "Back to Home Base" this week. Perhaps this will allow for some of the more creative beards I know you all have lurking in your imaginations. Perhaps a beard and 'burn combo..." Get those votes in by 4 PM on Sunday, October 31st!

Week in Review: Perhaps due to the fifteen-minutes-of-fame attention span of so many these days, and let's face it, with the advent of technology to entertain us all day, every day, we can hardly think for ourselves anymore, I received very few votes on this week's entry. There I go, growing a base to allow for many options and I get nearly shut out at the polls. That'll show me.

No, I chalk it up to the ferocity of this look and how intimidated all followers must be. Fear kept them all away. What if I vote and he doesn't like it? I mean, this guy looks serious AND ferocious...serocious, if you will. Yeah, that's probably it.

Week Seven: October 18th-October 24th

Pre-Week: Brought to use this week by my friend and coworker, Amy, who sent a last-minute vote via text message...The Jafar. Again, though not fully-furred enough to pull off the full-on Jafar (his has a lengthy collection of strands dangling from his lower chin--oh, the evil-look of that dastardly concoction) I thought a little creativity was in order. A thin collection around the mouth-tight oval descending from nostrils to upper lip, it circles around the mouth, I cheated the wiry strands from the chin by tracing out a wavy path down over the chin-fall to my neck. Some of my students are already calling it The River."

Get this week's vote in by Sunday, October 24th at 4:oo PM. It's never too late too tell my face what to do! (Well, until it is....)

Week Six: October 11th to 17th

Pre-Week: I would have preferred to spot this one up from the chin-post coming out of a fuller hair-face week, but the adoring Beard Blog-crowd wants what it wants. The Snidely Whiplash is brought to you courtesy of a convincing campaign from Emily, with whom I work at the Zoo during the Summer. She resubmitted this request a number of times and it came up as this week's winner. I hardly do it justice, with a thin crop of cheek fur, but it was due.

To be next week's winner, you too can submit your vote: either e-mail me or post a comment here by Sunday, October 17th at 4:oo PM. Who knows where this chin may take me next....

Week In Review: Maybe due to the light coloration of this number, there were not many comments. Some of my students noticed the "check-marks" on the sides of my face, while others wondered aloud why I went with just a mustache this time. One, wise beyond his years stated it simply, "Look, don't you know, he changes his look every week? That's his thing." Too true, young learner, too true.

Week Five: October 4th to 10th

Pre Week: In another hotly contested race (mostly between our friend Laura and my wife, Laura--and yes, they are two different people) the former won out with the Evil Twin Chris in honor of the coming month of pseudo-evil. The early returns on this look are favorable for me, even if this particular facial coif was universally-abhorred. Last night, heading off to bed post-shower, Laura (this one would the wife-Laura) told me, "Yeah, that look doesn't really do it for you." Still working on what that means.

My students, always good for a quip or quote brought about a joyous Monday morning meeting when their banter about my change began. I will save you the witty exchanges, but suffice it to say it ended with one girl saying, "EW! Fix your face tonight, make it go away!" A former student, back to visit from high school took a look and said, "Oh my God, I just noticed your face," to which I replied, "I know, pretty awesome, huh?" As if to show all the progress since the glory days in my classroom, she fought back, "Yeah, that wasn't the word I would use to describe it...." All signs point to a good week.

Get your votes in: this week's deadline is Sunday, October 10th at 4 PM.

Week in Review: I would have been hard-pressed to come up with a more universally-loathed look on my own, so kudos to you, Laura. The girl in my class who said, "Ew, make it go away," was among the nicer things I heard about the look all week. One of my friends who, strangely, also happens to be a colleague at my school, asked me if I was auditioning looks for Halloween, and if I was planning to go as a creeper.

I didn't meet anyone who actually liked the look, so I count that as an instant classic--a hit in the offing. Each day, the kids asked when I would fix it, and did daily status checks as the "shadow" filled in around it. By the time my daughters and I attended a school-sponsored bowling event on Saturday (an event I had, yet again, NOT planned for when carving this 'stache) most of it was back to a pseudo-Indy Jones scruff look, with only a few darker patches on the chin and upper lips. Even my daughters were calling for the Chinstrap again, and that was not exactly the most popular look either.

Week Four: The Modified Fu

Pre-Week: This week's winner, submitted by Burt (my college roommate during Freshman year at Providence) is the Modified Fu-Manchu. OK, so technically, Burt wanted the traditional Fu, but I took the liberty to exercise my creative facial rights, thinking ahead to the malleability of options this look might spawn. The stout handlebars and the thick center stripe...think about what you could have me do for week 5. Voting opens now, and carries forth until Sunday, October 3rd, at 4 PM.

Week In Review: Other than the odd comment about how I shaved again, or questions about my recent haircut--you'd be amazed at how much a little facial hair change throws people off--there was very little bluster about this week. Perhaps it is still too early in the going, or the Fu Manchu, even in this modified state is not enough to incite crowd rioting over changes in jaw looks. So sad. American Chopper I was not....

Week Three: The Shaggy

Pre-Week: I now present this week's winner...The Shaggy!

I briefly considered amending this beard to make it the Sleazy Shaggy (just mustache and thick central-chin patch) or Shaggy, the Later Years (patchy in general, possibly with some scorch marks in it from "various adventures."


But, in order to remain true to the spirit of Beard Democracy, I felt justified in keeping with the suggestion submitted by Laura (whose husband Chuck submitted the Week One winner--the first husband and wife team to score in this facial hair lottery--kudos!) This one already has the kids talking, but that will wait for another day.

Get in on the action, and the exciting, edge-of-your razor voting. You can create the next facial design as long as you submit your comment on this blog site, or e-mail me by Sunday, September 26th at 4 PM. Happy Bearding!

Week in Review: Well, the kids in my class enjoyed the "pointiness" of this beard model, though are likely too young to even recognize it as a Shaggy-inspired chin-coif. (They were all born after 2002, after all....) They also wondered, often, why I left that patch in the middle so much longer than the rest. Once they saw me fingering it and twisting it whenever listening or thinking, I think they figured that one out.

The manly scruff by the end of the week came in handy as I was once again cast in the role of evil king and old dragon, at the mercy of our daughters in our weekend reprisal of "swording." I have to enjoy that they take almost anything we do and turn it into a verb. Of course, I comply by buying them a couple of foam swords in the dollar section, maybe just to hear them continue with their swording rituals. Maybe I should be sacred that, while our older daughter plays somewhat nicely, lightly stabbing my heart and slashing at my arms to chop them off, our younger daughter attacks with a ferocity befitting her Scottish ancestry. I half expect her to whip up her makeshift kilt and taunt me before heading into battle. She orders me to the couch and then tells me to fight, only to charge through my defense and hack at my neck and face. No amount of poking with my lowly cardboard dagger is enough to ward off her onslaught. She is merciless, as she swipes at my eyes and head, slices at my neck and happily announces that she has chopped my head off. Score one for imagination, I suppose.

Week Two: Eight Ball, Corner Pockets

Pre-Week: Hardly a splurge of voting--yes, even beard-dom has its fifteen minutes, especially now in Mayfly attention span society--but the strongest of the entries this week came from within my own household. Most people assume I do these things against my wife's wishes--perhaps this speaks to my nature as a person who does things to rile people, antagonize people, or otherwise go against their wishes for me--but I can assure you that Laura is just as much a part of this scheme as I am. Many of the things I have done over the years, especially things involving hair and facial hair, have come after hilarious discussions with her. So, this week's entry comes straight from her cranium to my jawline: Eight Ball (chin circle, or as close as I could get it) and Corner Pockets (jawline beneath ears, semi-triangular in shape.) I give her credit for building from last week's design and having a vision even I did not have.

Now it's your turn: sculpt my face, or at least my facial hair. Use this week as your base and think ahead to a normal week's growth. Next week, you could attain beard infamy! Voting closes on Sunday, September 19th at 4 PM.

Week In Review: For whatever reason, my current crop of students are remarkably observant about all things facial hair. Maybe it is because they are always looking up at it, framing my face, from under my chin, and things of that nature. But now we seem to start each week with an update about their weekends, and their updated musings on my beard.

One girl likes to begin by pointing out the changes since our last (Monday) meeting, though she provides almost daily commentary on the ever-changing status of the beard. I sincerely hope she does not think this will get her in my good graces. This week, I couldn't even get in my usual post-weekend inquiry, "How was everyone's weekend?" Upon inhaling to ask that, as everyone settled into spots near the front of the room, she looked, sighed and said, "...AND you shaved!" in that Michael Buffer style that squared-circle pundits have come to love and lament as a sign of the commercialization of their gym-bound sport.

Luckily, my sport--that of extreme facial hair growth and change--is never out of style because, much like the mullet, it was never really in style. It is all a matter of what you are willing to strap on your chin and jaw and flaunt around town for the week.

Of course, unlike the lone girl who chronicles my beard adventures nearly as well as I do, there are others who have little to no idea it is going on. One boy noticed on Wednesday, as he said, "Hey, that's cool how you have like those little patches on the sides...it's like you have the chin, and then you have the sideburns." Yet another fit well into the "no idea" category, as I scanned the crowd many a day and saw him with BOTH of his nostrils filled with fingers (up to the bridge) simultaneously. Now that is talent to which we can all aspire.

Week One: The D-Chinstrap

Pre-week:

Introducing...the D-Chinstrap. So suggested by a man who knows his beards--Chuck--who really wants me to call it the Douchy Chinstrap.

This is week one's winner. Keep this look in mind and project forward to imagine what I might be able to grow, and what you would like the look to be next week. Only five voting days remaining...all beard polls close at 4 PM on Sunday, September 12th!

Week in Review: With the D-Chinstrap in place, it was only down to the reactions from the various factions I encounter each week.

First, there were the students: they shared about their weekends on Monday morning and at the end, I tried to skate by with nary a word about my personal life (all the better for keeping up the mysterious Batman-like visage) but one girl exposed me by asking, "And what did you do?" When I brushed her off with some non-descript replies about "much of the usual" she countered by saying, "Well, that's not true, you shaved!" Suddenly, my facial hair became the topic of the moment. They ogled it and cooed over it, wondering how I could shave it, why I shave it and any and every other question to avoid the fact that I was just about to ask them to work. Nice try. The rest of the week, they asked me sporadic and spontaneous questions about my facial hair: why it was reddish; why it was several different colors; and why there were some white streaks in it. The last of those I reassured them it was probably just blonde.

My own children, having survived my face in all its permutations both charged me at the door Tuesday afternoon and claimed they liked my new "chinstrap." Have to love your own kids even more when they recognize the motif without you naming it. I take that to mean we possess a very advanced three year-old; I don't know about you.

As for adults, well, not surprisingly, no one said a word about it. But, in the category of yet another thing I probably should have thought through a bit more before doing it (which most people would argue is all of the things I do) I did capture this D-Chinstrap forever in school photos on Picture Day (to be proudly displayed in the yearbook as the Second Grade teacher most kids want to forget....) Good plan.

Beard Democracy: Humble Beginnings

And away we go with this year's beard challenge...

For this year's Beard Blog, I have decided that I will open up the beard-dom to any faithful followers (all one of you) who would like to influence my weekly facial hair motifs. My original plan was to teach my new Second Grade students (yes, I have moved down a few grade levels) all about good citizenship and voting by having them vote on weekly beard designs. But, I thought better of it, and not least of which because I am likely to get some grief about hogging the learning airspace with my beard fanaticism.

So, for those of you who would like to participate, here are the ground rules:

(1) You must post a suggestion in my comments section or you may e-mail me with your suggestion for the following week's beard theme.

(2) All beard suggestions must meet the deadline posted with each new beard.

(3) Each new beard must be built using the raw materials from the previous week--I cannot work facial hair miracles here, folks. (See the current facial sporting above.)

(4) All beards must be clean, and you know what I mean--keeping in mind, again, that I teach at an elementary school.

Other than that, have at it. I will take suggestions for Week One's beard until 4 PM on Monday, September 6th. I will choose the weekly winner. Don't be discouraged if yours is not selected, there are many beards ahead!

So, have at it. Come on, let's be realistic, how many times will you get the chance to tell me what to do and I might actually listen?

Week Thirty-Eight: May 24th

And now we come to the final week: the final week of the school year, the final week of my weekly beard experiments and the final week of this blog. Thirty-eight weeks and thirty-eight beards does a school year make.

In response to last week's "Question" (especially in response to those wondering about my possible move to teach Second Grade next year) comes "The Answer!" It is a bit strange walking the halls of any place--a school, a store, one's own house--sporting a number two scrawled from the ever-changing facial hair around one's mouth.

Perhaps because they were watching the clock and counting the days, minutes and moments until summer, my students did not seem phased by the giant two on my chin. That didn't stop me from having them grab armloads of books and boxes to help me cart them across the school, up a few flights of stairs and past several classrooms also in the latter stages of closing down, to deposit them in my new Second Grade classroom. My Fourth Graders, some of whom are nearly as tall as me--which isn't saying much, really--could not get over the diminutive size of the kids, the chairs and the desks. They felt like twenty Gullivers in a foreign land, even if some of them are not much taller than the current crop of ascending-Second Graders.

In the end, they might actually suspect this to be the reason for my move: so I will most assuredly be taller than all the kids in next year's class. While I do have height-challenged issues, I no longer make decisions based on them. I rarely notice when my former students return to visit me (even as soon as 5th/6th Grade) and already tower over me. When they reach high school and I am only up to their shoulders they shake their heads, wondering how I ever appeared a giant to them. As do I, as do I.

Week Thirty-Seven: May 17th

As I have said, for many weeks, the rumor mill has been stoking about my possible move to Second Grade. The intrigue surrounding the whole event is funny to me and it is so baffling to almost everyone who ponders it that I felt I must fuel the fire with a bit of well-times facial farce. Thus, I bring you "The Question." No surprise what next week's final entry might be called....

Then, when the time came for the annual storytelling I do at my elementary school, they somehow saw fit to dub it (no joke), "An Evening with the Mysterious Mr. Chisholm." I thought it was hilarious, even if it was only because no one believed my actual theme and title when I told them. (It was called "Writer's Block.") So, the question mark beard did double-duty. Of course, with only a week-and-a-half of school remaining when I showed up with this one, the kids took little notice. Their brains are elsewhere, even if I continue to be one of those mean teachers who expects work right until the end.

Week Thirty-Six: May 10th

I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache....

Well, not anymore. Aside from my overwhelming desire to cheese-it-up over these last few weeks (of blog and school) there was actually a good cause for this lip caterpillar. On Tuesday I had to perform in a concert alongside our 4th/5th grade Orchestra (Strings) players. Their teacher hatched this plot early in the year, and approached me during the second week of school to see if I would be interested. Would I? She admitted, which later became clear to all, that she did not know me that well.

For this concert, we were to be the concluding act in their lengthy recital of the early-instrument-mastering classics "Go Tell Aunt Rhody," Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," and many, many more. Nothing out of the ordinary there. As a grand-finale, a few staff members were to take on parts in a play called "Aunt Rhody's Appetite" as the kids played accompaniment. There was a narrator (our principal, who really didn't want to be in it at all), Aunt Rhody (another 4th grade teacher), the Old Gray Goose (our assistant principal, who feared making a fool of himself) and Pierre, the French Chef (me.) So, this 'stache was a method 'stache.

A funny thing happened on the way to the finale: the other 4th grade teacher got sick and we were left in a bind. The Strings teacher who by then had decided this kind of thing was "clearly within (my) realm of ability," acquiesced when I suggested that I rehearse on the final day as both Pierre and Aunt Rhody. She thought I was crazy at the time, but allowed me to do it. About halfway through the first rehearsal, she decided I should do both (prompting our assistant principal to say I should do all four!)

That is how, in our afternoon assembly before our 2nd-5th graders and that evening, before all the parents and families, I came to be dressed as half of a French Chef and half of an old woman, as I spoke, mostly to myself, and did any other manner of ridiculous things I never get to do at school. I don't agree with many of the parents who told me "I missed my calling," which I am not sure is an indictment of my teaching or a testament to the quality of acting they have seen.

At the least, I could not take myself at all serious (and rarely do anyway) as I glanced in any mirror throughout the week and saw this terrible 'stache grinning back at me.

Week Thirty-Five: May 3rd

Following our team's resounding Kickball Tournament win (for the second consecutive year) I felt the need to show school spirit with the "H House." The "H" is in reference to our school name, Henry.

The district is doing a great deal of work on mission and vision this year and they talk a lot about this business model featuring a "house." In it, the foundation is the mission and vision, and the rest of the house rests on that foundation. Every school has its own personality so, to fit them all into one "house," would be rather difficult in a non-Partridge Family-meets-Brady-Bunch kind of way. Our school shares its own common vision about what is important--the kids--and why we are there--for them.

Plus, this look gave me the chance to sport a partial 'stache, thinking ahead to next week's design.

Week Thirty-Four: April 26th

About one month before the end of the school year, so it's natural that my thoughts would turn toward the summer, and my time at the zoo. "The Skunk" is in honor of those thoughts, and the meeting I had at the zoo on Tuesday night, a semi-official kick-off to the summer.

By now, most of my students have clued in to the ever-changing beards. (That only took 34 weeks.) Of course, they think each one is a new animal and, except for the Stingray, many months ago, they would be incorrect.

But, "The Skunk" has an ulterior motive: the rumors began to fly this week that I would be leaving the safe and familiar confines of my fourth grade domain and testing the pastures of second grade. My students have begun to pester me about it daily, and the current third graders have already been casting me looks shot-full of evil, so they have fully bought into it.

Not a day goes by without some e-mail or phone call from a concerned parent (of a current second or third grader) about this potential move. All want me to disconfirm this rumor or give some sort of validation to what they fear may be the truth. Of course, I have yet to satisfy these queries, preferring instead to remain "ignorant" of the entire situation. So, maybe my cryptic responses and artful dodging of inquiries does paint me as the skunk in this situation, but, it gives everyone something to do as we round out the year.

Week Thirty-Three: April 19th

Missouri is also known as the Cave State, a fact known to few outside of the state. I had never heard such word prior to my arrival, thinking the mighty caves of the world lay elsewhere, at some distance from our Midwestern state.

While most caves are in state and local hands, there are a few new ones discovered each year, usually by some adventurous spelunker, or group of high school cronies looking for a new party spot. Perhaps this was on my mind as I took razor in hand this past week; the caves, not the revelry of inebriated high schoolers.

Capturing the craggy formations of stalactites and stalagmites was not as easy as it seemed in the mental image I formed in my head. This left me with pretty much the same look as you see above. I had people inquire about my "tiger stripes," "missing hair streaks," and "bald spots." To me, it looked like the points descending from the ceiling, grown through hundreds of years of dripping water to form soda straws and then centuries more to make the 'tites and 'mites of cave legend. In reality, what most people probably saw was something that looked a bit disheveled. Much like my current crop of hair, long enough to move around on its own, but too short to be tamed by any of my attempts at combing and brushing, the beard had a mind of its own. Perhaps a stiff breeze ruffled the 'tite into a position almost parallel to my chin-bottom, or the 'mite, sagging down toward the cave wall. The point is, it rarely looked as good as it did even in this picture. Sad, but true.

In a few short weeks, my hair will reach Mon-chi-chi status, and be the fuzzy halo-dome crowning my head. Perhaps I will allow the beard t do the same, just to really complete the look.

Or, perhaps not.

Week Thirty-Two: April 12th

In the time before hundreds of channels devoted almost entirely to cartoons, when cartoons ran on regular, episodic loops with mostly G-rated content, there was the classic cartoon villain.

You know him because he usually kidnapped some hapless damsel and lashed her to the always-handy train tracks. The derivation of these from the days of black and white movies and Buster Keaton's handiwork is evident.

Those villains would never fly nowadays, and not the least of which because almost all cartoons are cast in the mold of The Simpsons, with humor split on two levels, including numerous pop-culture references and vocal and visual candy for the parents who would "never" watch cartoons alongside their children (but probably should, based on the content of said cartoons.)

Really, there is no reason for adults to claim they know nothing of cartoons during this day and age. With networks like Adult Swim and its flagship Venture Brothers, and the success of Robot Chicken on the web, people over the age of eighteen are obviously tuning in. Give up and admit it!

My Cartoon Villain is nothing like the caricatures they pass off as villains these days. Modern day villains actually have a snarky chance for semi-success. Old-time, railroad-tying villains never stood a chance. Even the most bumbling of cartoon anti-heroes (cut from the Goofy cloth) could easily disrupt the plans of those old villains and still have time to make a sandwich, fall down a hole and still arrive home in time for dinner.

The serial incompetence of those old-time villains was what made the cartons so good. The message was all-too-clear: all bad guys were idiots. Now, kids aren't so sure.

Week Thirty-One: April 5th

You cannot live where I do without giving some measure of respect to "El Hombre," Albert Pujols. The Cardinals have rarely had a corner man who mashes and hits for average, and NO, Jack Clark does not count. In the post-McGwire shakeout of all things baseball, with on-going fan speculation about juicers and non-juicers, we can hope that Pujols falls into the latter camp.

If only I had been the beneficiary of the discriminating eye that The Man has...maybe I would not have set a personal and team record in 14/15 year-old Babe Ruth with 13 strikeouts in 25 at-bats. Call me Mark Reynolds and Ryan Howard before my time. Given a whole season to put up those kind of numbers, I might have set legendary Hudson Babe Ruth tallies that would be the Hall of Shame standards toward which all poor-eyesighted boys might strive.

Of course, I maintain, to this day, that my case was not helped much by my coach's insistence that I try to bunt on the first two strikes of every at-bat, using my "wheels" to leg-out infield singles. This was all good in theory, and during practices, when I could lay down nasty dying quail bunts on either baseline, almost at will. (I think it also helped that, as the third baseman on that same team, I was not at the position at the time, and was often replaced by someone just a shade better than a nose-picker and people-watcher.)

Never a master of plate discipline in the first place (my first Little League coach always told me to lay off the high ones, but neglected to give a nod to the fact that I could hit the high ones) I could do little more than flail at the third strike after putting myself in an 0-2 hole with foul-tips and dribblers that rode the chalk and fell foul before the base.

So, this facial tribute to a man whose coach likely never told him to lay one down, or take a strike of any kind. A man only "slightly" larger than me, and a man who never stole thirteen bases while wearing 1987 Air Jordans. Beat that one, El Hombre!

Week Thirty: March 29th

Coming into the homestretch for submission of my materials for National Board Certification, it was time for a rallying charge facial-hair change.

It just so happened that our school was about to begin the two-week journey that is state testing. This year we decided to do a pep rally of sorts to get the students excited about how well we believed they could do. I don't know how it all started, but someone floated the idea, and then there was mention of "Deal or No Deal," and the next thing I know, I am sporting "The Mandel."

The panicked and horrified looks in the kids' eyes was worth the price of admission and, despite my college roommate's fears that his hair would never grow back if he ever mustered the eggs to shave it all off, I have no such fears. If it doesn't grow back, well, then, that is OK too. (Of course, as I write this, I already have a nice dome-stubble forming, which tells me that this particular shaving will develop in much the same way that the other eleven have.)

Wrapping up National Boards was one thing; getting the chance to burn it all out in a performance in my own school, a place where I feel as though I am always playing a part (and hiding some of myself) is an entirely different thing. So, I suited up and played Mandel: germophobe-heavy and script-free. The kids in 3rd-5th grades did not quite know what to make of it, nor did the poor kid we selected to play the contestant. One of my students asked me afterward if we, "like, practiced that, or something," and I laughed, responding, "No, I made that up as I went along." She walked off with a look of semi-disbelief, knowing by now that she can never take everything I say completely seriously, but thinking this might be a rare time when I told the whole truth.

Week Twenty-Nine: March 22nd

Last week was my Spring Break and, though my days of Pompano Beach and Fort Lauderdale during Harley Week at Daytona are long past, I did travel to Colorado for the week.

Then again, "break" was hardly what I would call it: I spent about six to seven hours each day working on my computer, typing papers for my National Board Certification (for teaching.) It is a crazy year-long process that calls for you to collect student work samples, videotape several lessons and write four huge papers that feature little to no actual writing and lots of robotic regurgitation to prove you met their standards. I should have thought twice about this one, knowing how little I like to play other peoples' games and jump through other peoples' hoops. But, once I was in, I was in!

This was how I spent my Spring Break: typing in hotel bathrooms, trying to ignore the bloodstains at one Super 8 in North Platte, NE; typing in darkened corners after my family had gone to bed; typing in the car with a hat yanked far down over my eyes, as to avoid the nausea-inducing objects whipping past the windows; typing early in the morning in my sister-in-law's basement before anyone else woke up, and then repeating the process after they went to bed. And still, I returned home the following week with work left to do, knowing my late-nights and shirked sleep had only just begun.

So really, this look came more out of necessity: I didn't even bring my razor on the trip, and the grizzled look helped me stay angry as the snarl under my neck continually velcroed my short collars.

Week Twenty-Eight: March 8th

Back when I was doing bird shows at the Cincinnati Zoo, we used to get excited about shows at which the local Amish made an appearance. You generally knew the shows would go well on any given summer day, as the birds were well-trained and had been performing the same routines for years. But when the Amish arrived, you knew something amazing would happen.

Of course, I am not blind to the fact that we probably worked a little harder to get those crowds involved and cause them to laugh. My boss, Gary, used to time his lines to allow even more (perfect) pauses for dramatic humor, and he would celebrate after a show that he got an older Amish gentleman to smile or, better yet, to laugh. Gary claimed he once delivered a line that made an Amish elder fall from his seat. I was not there to witness this alleged event, so I cannot attest to its truth, but I have never known Gary to lie, so I would not put it past him. There was always more magic in the air on those Amish-crowd days.

Years later, as I worked at the Minnesota Zoo, I took this mysterious occurrence with me. I found that as I now hosted shows in our large, outdoor amphitheater, I would step up the frenzy on the days the Amish were in the audience. I relished the opportunity to discuss the birds and training with them after the show; at least far more than those Sunday crowds at my current zoo: those we dubbed "NASCAR Sunday" crowds. The Amish crowds had questions and expressed awe at the birds doing what they did naturally. The NASCAR Sunday crowds came up at the end of shows to tell us about how their brother or cousin (or both, simultaneously) had a bird whose tongue he cut to make it talk and the thing could swear in fifteen languages. Fascinating!

So, this look is my tribute to those times, when birds flew well, and the Amish crowd caused magic.

Week Twenty-Seven: March 1st

For those of you not weaned on NBA basketball games in the late 80's and early 90's, you may never have heard of Brad Daugherty. A UNC alum, Daugherty cleaned the glass at a Moses Malone-like pace in his short career. Perhaps more importantly, he used his tall, spindly frame to score about 20 points per game over the short career that would soon be derailed be injuries. (Nowadays he is ESPN's NASCAR analyst, which I find even more amusing than his awesome facial hair and his frequent destruction at the hands of Jordan and the Bulls' dynasty. Of course, this also explains his odd #43 number uniform choice: in honor of NASCAR legend Richard Petty.)

To my friends and I, Brad Daugherty was always known for his amazing facial hair. Of course, during his first few years in the league, he was still working out the look, rarely sporting more than a 'stache. And while I could never actually do justice the to sideburn and step-down to the under neck thickness worn by the man himself, I had to make an attempt at it at least once. In high school--his pro hoops salad days--we often spoke, about how we would wear the Daugherty look when we were older. I would have made the effort long before now if not for my severe aversion to hair-scrub under my neck. Not only is it itchy, but it catches on my shirt collar and drives me insane. Still, I kept this look the entire week, including during my parent-teacher conferences with 19 of 20 families. More than once, I saw glances at my chin and neck, especially as the week wore on and the look became ever more scraggly in the manner of Jack Sparrow.

For those unfamiliar with Daugherty, check out some Brad Daugherty pictures with a web search and you won't be disappointed. You might even hear Marv Albert proclaim, "Daugherty serves up a facial!" Yes. Yes he did.

Week Twenty-Six: February 22nd

"Daddy, why are you smearing Vaseline on your beard?"

And so began my week-long adventure wearing "I Am The Walrus." Though I did not spend hours each morning slathering the tusks with petroleum jelly, I had no need to: beard hair is so coarse, the slime wanted no part of letting go of my beard for the next few days.

Though normally apt to play with my beard or stroke my facial hair, this week's entry may have cured me of both habits. I don't know that I realized I had this habit, until a few years ago one of my students turned to me as I was listening to him read and said, "Will you please stop that?" Of course, that only made me more likely to do it during subsequent visits, just to irk him in my own amusing little way. He got to the point that he would just glance and glare at me in mid-sentence and I would laugh, stopping briefly.

Of course, I did not have walrus tusks back in those days. Past shaving accidents even left me with one tusk longer than the other, in true walrus fashion. Male walruses (or walri, as some call them) battle for ice-floe and shoreline supremacy. Using tusks and girth, they will shove and grunt and try to carve their opponents to bloody sausage in the manner of elephant seals. Of course, walrus males have hardly the tenacity of elephant seals. Theirs is more like a Sunday couch-potato nacho bowl battle by comparison.

My current students, so used to the leaf-rake-sounding beard-stroking that they don't even hear it anymore, did not even notice the tusks. On Friday, someone touched my face, causing me to say,"You know, not everyone likes to have his face touched; and I am one of those people." This brought attention to my face for the first time, prompting another student to ask if they were wings. When I told him they were walrus tusks, that touched off a clamor that took several moments to quell.

At the end of the day, one other boy asked me if I was trying to grow a different beard each week over these past few weeks. I snorted and replied that I have grown a new beard for each of the first 26 weeks of school! Everyone gathered around and gaped. Could this be possible? They are beginning to learn that I enjoy making many things possible. Strange things included.

Week Twenty-Five: February 15th

If you are anything like me, and let's hope for your sake that you are not, you shot out of bed on Saturday mornings and digested as many consecutive hours of cartoons as you could. Sometimes I arose too early and saw nothing but repeat programming and shows that seemed to play a day too early: hello 700 Club! If I was only slightly early, I would catch the Captain, Kangaroo, that is, or, in later years some repeats of Painting with Bob Ross. Anyone unfamiliar with that stroke of television brilliance, in other words anyone outside of a certain range within New England, knows nothing of happy little clouds, soothing voices, Alizarin Crimson and amazing white-fros. If ever I had the coif-capabilities....

On those long Saturdays, full of animated mayhem, would occasionally appear a show that pre-dated any glorified reality garage shows of the current time period. It was called "Choppers," and was the Easy Rider of cartoons: nothing more than souped-up motorcycles (with faces and voices, of course) cruising around from place to place, having adventures.

Sure, it was no different from so many other cartoons of the day. If all stories since Shakespeare have been accused of borrowing his storylines--something of which he is also accused--then all cartoons of my youth followed the same formula. Not only from episode to episode but between shows! Space Ghost, Captain Caveman, Scooby Doo, and many, many more, all followed the same structure: one hero, however inept, surrounded by a crew of competent, or incompetent, others. They solve mysteries, problems, dilemmas, in-fighting, disagreements and whatever other name you can derive for the "serious" problems of the time.

Choppers was certainly no exception. They had a central hero, but downplayed his role as they tried to promote the importance of the free-ranging, countryside-roaming group dynamic. Regardless of their special skill, and we of that age learned well that each member of a group brought a certain special skill--one that no one else could possibly contribute--all members worked together to solve the problem and save the day, make the county fair happen, rescue the missing kids, uncover the hidden treasure and, especially, defraud the mystery of the ghost town.

All I knew was I would own a motorcycle like that when I was older. When I reached a certain age, and cartoons were no longer cool (or at least we would not freely advertise our continuing admiration for the genre) I turned my attention to the only "bikes" I would ever ride. Despite my numerous attempts to learn to ride a bike, it was a skill that took me years (and many tears) to master. My friends could ride bikes before they entered Kindergarten, in the manner of so many coordinated boys, but my banana-seated, stiff-wheeled, orange-flagged bicycle would not yield to my unbalanced demands.

At one point, when I had all but given up hope that I would learn to ride any bike, I spied a kid in my neighborhood with a Chopper-style bike. I never said a word to anyone, knowing this might advertise my continuing allegiance to the show, but damn it, I KNEW if I had that bike, I would learn to ride with ease.

Week Twenty-Four: February 8th

Seeking a departure from the humdrum entries of the past few weeks, I figured "Lightning Strikes Twice" would get some notice. I was not disappointed. Out of the shower for about thirty minutes, I was at a store getting some dinner supplies and one of the baggers abandoned his duties, jumped out in front of me and gave the double-thumbs-up, saying, "Awesome beard, man!" Imagine if I had kept the hair....

If not for the trim-down caused by the "Two Clogs" I might have been able to force the bolts higher up the jaw and created sharper angles for the truly jagged look, but it was serviceable all the same. Our older daughter, who hears the razor fire up and dashes into the bathroom each week to provide commentary, told me it looked like skeleton fingers. (She and I rarely agree on the title, nor what it actually looks like.) If only I'd had the temerity to attempt another beard-dyeing, I would have completed the look with a thorough bolt-bleaching. Of course, having tried that in the past and survived with fried nose hairs and semi-charred skin, I can attest to the truth on the package warnings when they tell you to apply "only to your scalp." Then again, with how much my scalp feels Botoxed after each bleaching, I can only imagine the lasting damage I have done to my head. I am not bald (yet) and have retained remarkable hold on my hair after nearly 37 years of life (during the last decade of which my hair has absorbed countless episodes of chemical abuse at the hands of Loreal and Nivea bleaching products.)

The only ones unimpressed with the look were my students, though, to give them the benefit of the doubt, we did have only three days of school this week after missing Tuesday with a snow day and Friday to a day we spent writing report cards. (And we naive children used to wonder how we got all those four-day weekends.) I thought that with the big-screen debut of the wildly popular Percy Jackson series, the kids might pick up on my tepid shout-out to the bolts of Zeus. No such luck. I did get the usual array of looks from kids and adults around the building, most of whom are still mustering the courage to question my grooming habits. (If I receive a going-away razor at the end of this year, my efforts will have been worth it!)

Week Twenty-Three: February 1st

Beards: Amsterdam-style. I am a big fan of concept-beards, a fact that is all-too obvious to anyone who reads these postings even semi-regularly. Some concepts get noticed. Some stand out. Some win approval with their creative subtlety. And some pass with utter confusion and pitying glances.

This beard falls into the latter category. Though I always know what is going on with my facial hair, anyone who sees me enough cannot quite place a finger on the variations, or the strangeness (and let's assume the strangeness of the facial hair is what befuddles them. I am perfectly normal to me. Aren't we all?)

"Two Clogs On A Wire" made perfect sense to me, but was not as easy to craft as I had envisioned. Seemed like a good idea at the time... what some would argue should be my personal motto, fit the bill on this beard. For the first time, I am including two photos so you can see the right-hand clog (the more successful one) and the leftover patches that represent the craggy borders of The Netherlands. Yes, that one took some time...!

Much like the "Man" so many people claim to see in the Moon, one must use imagination--what English teachers would call "suspension of disbelief"--to see the hard-cork heel near my chin and the rounded toe between my earlobe and jawline. Kudos to you if noticed the large hole at the top through which you would slip your foot in this laceless beard.

Because this looked more like a shaving accident gone bad, I got several second and sideways glances throughout the week: Did he miss a spot? How well do I know him; can I tell him about those stray hairs above the rest of the beard? What in the world is that thing on his chin--is that, no it couldn't be, and yet I think it is...The Netherlands?

Though the thick mustache serves as the "wire" in this motif, it hardly resembled one. If I had to lay blame on one aspect of the beard that did not work, it was that one. For, as we all know, the fault could not lie in the hand (and razor) of the shaver. No, his hand is steady and true, even if his vision and his mind are not.

Week Twenty-Two: January 25th

"You gonna do somethin' or are you gonna stand there and bleed?" A quality line in a fine cinematic turn by Kurt Russell. When he took up the mantle, and the pistols, of Wyatt Earp, he put shame to any Kevin Costner rendition of the same story. (Of course, we won't discuss whose was less Hollywood-ized and more historically accurate--Tombstone was far more entertaining.) How often does one get to see a chubby Billy Bob Thornton shamed by that very line, and so many others? Throw in Val Kilmer's brilliant mock-up of Doc Holliday and what you have is a recipe for a classic way to spend a few hours.

Over time, I have come to appreciate other things about books and movies--one suspects these things happen with age. Of course, knowing my current fascination with facial hair exploits, you could do worse than to observe the amazing chin and lip stylings of the men in this film. From Holliday's pitiful, greasy-lip worm to Sam Neill's amazing gray extended 'stache (one day in the distant future I will wear that Sam Neill classic for a year, at least) the press-on appliques these gentlemen sport must have kept them in the makeup chair for hours.

So this is my homage to all things Tombstone, in a more modern way. What looked like two bricks on either side of my head, strung together with a solid field of thick red hair felt heavy on my face all week, with the 'stache poking into my nostrils and the jaw chops reaching like Wrigley vines into my ear holes. I had to fight the temptation all week to thin the upper lip crop.

Week Twenty-One: January 18th

Probably a bit of a mystery to those unfamiliar with Superman 2, The General Zod is a thirtieth anniversary tribute not to the movie, but the man behind the evil genius. The hirsute look--brilliantly sported by cult film legend Terence Stamp, who may not possess the ability to play a character that is not hilariously amazing--featured far more gray than I am able to muster at this point in life. Plus, though my Zod is hardly the same as his, consider this a "reboot," to use the parlance so favored in all film franchises seeking new audiences nowadays.

Though Zod was the arch-nemesis and mastermind behind Superman's apparent destruction in this film, I found it ironic that while searching for photos of his beard, I discovered that Terence Stamp played the role of Superman's father on Smallville. (Oh, and in case you missed that--yes, I do actually research some of my beards. Hey, I never claimed I was anything but a nerd!)

This beard was greeted with great acclaim by my students, though it may have been more due to my reappearance as something more than the shell of myself that showed up at school for two days last week. The middle stripe, in particular, caught their eye, forcing me to battle many sets of hands seeking to tug at the longer hairs dangling from the bottom of my chin. Though it is common for me to talk to them about not touching each other, it is pretty rare that I have to use the words, "Please stop stroking my face," with any members of my class (who usually look upon me as a member of an alien race rather than an actual person.) Look, Mommy, a dancing clown teaches our class.

Or something like that. Fortunately for me, and for them, I possess little of Zod's imperious nature. That, and my lack of ambition for world domination might just make me a serviceable teacher.

Week Twenty: January 11th

Laura, forever complicit in my bearding adventures (though probably because she fears people might accuse her of marrying a minor if I am not cloaked in hair) got me a beard and mustache trimmer for Christmas. Inspired by the acquisition of such a brilliant product, I present the "Just For Men."

Every time I visit the local pharmacy to acquire hair dye to turn my hair blonde (a summer ritual, thanks to my participation in Camp Kangazoo) I spy beard products bearing this name. Most of them feature close-up shots of beards dyed various colors, presumably to cover the graying of one's facial hair. Living, as I do, in the pseudo-ghetto, our shelves feature only products meant for non-Caucasian hair. (It's usually difficult to find blonde hair dye, leaving me to resort to the women's section. Hey, it's the same stuff!)

I am always struck by these products and cannot really imagine why I would want to dye my beard. As I have mentioned, most people already accuse me of dyeing my beard thanks to its red appearance once it grows out to a certain point. When I assure them I have not, and would not, dye my beard (well, maybe not) they ask what my real hair color is. Strange to everyone but me that I may retain somewhat youthful looks (well into my thirties) and that, though my hair is dark brown--my daughters insist it is black--my facial hair emerges as a Viking Red. (Now there's a color for Crayola and J Crew to tout!) If ever I had the fortitude to grow my hair out to braiding and pony-tail length, I could make a partially successful career as an extra in Viking-themed movies. Lord knows there is a calling for such things.

Regardless, the Just For Men products hock their revitalizing powers and often have close-ups of finely manicured beards such as the one I have captured in this photo. Maybe not as exciting as other entries, but just as finely manicured, and equally inexplicable as these products are to me.

Week Nineteen: January 4th

The triumphant return this week, now a week late due to illness. What better way to round out the old year and begin the new than with the full beard resulting from a few weeks of holiday growth. Sadly, my facial hair wasn't the only thing growing....

I call this "Man-Up!" only in hindsight, as I had no name for it during its week of wearing. Nor did I have many coherent thoughts. Why not, you may ask?

I put in only two public appearances all week: one staff development day on the 4th, at which I unveiled a rollicking one-man guitar song I wrote the night before. It was about the second half of the school year--a slightly-Dylan, mostly Sandler preview of all things important to the kids during the second half of the year. The staff was rather unsure what to make of it, though they may have been thrown a bit by the red eyes and glasses I sported in day-after rock star fashion.

The return day for the kids was Tuesday, and they said nary a word on the subject of hair--not even to comment, as they usually do, upon the color of the beard. Mostly, they accuse me of dyeing my facial hair and/or my hair, neither of which would be beyond the typical realm of possibility for me. But, then again, they had little time to accuse me of anything, as Tuesday was the only day they saw me.

I showed up on Wednesday morning and sat at my desk (hours before their arrival) slowly descending into the grip of an illness that would commandeer my life for the next week. Fifteen minutes before they arrived, I lost all feeling in my hands and feet, and began to have difficulty seeing out of one or both eyes. Dragging myself to the nurse's office (love that feature of the elementary school!) I passed two people, both of whom said, "Oh my God, are you sick? You should leave!" The second, fortunately, was our registrar who called me a sub immediately.

Back in my classroom, awaiting the sub, the first trickle of kids entered the door, unaware that my head was now playing tricks on me. They all approached for their usual greetings and check-in, and I felt suddenly as if I was in a fun house, or tripping on some drug slipped into my soy milk. Mercifully, a TA arrived to watch my kids until the sub arrived. I threw my belongings in a backpack, zipped my computer into a bag, and stumbled out of the room, to the worried looks of many kids, and the clueless calls of others. Somehow, I drove home.

By the time I woke up, sometime later that evening, I could barely stand, and I had no idea what day it was, time it was, nor any recollection of the last half-day. I did not eat food for three days, and became unusually sensitive to all smells. My temperature swung from 93 degrees to 102 degrees within an hour and I had such severe chills I could barely remain upright. On a bright note, I managed to be spared further absences by two consecutive snow days to round out the week.

Thanks to Man Up! at least my face was warm.