Mid-December

Lots of Goat-Haters out there....

I will be the first to admit that I appear to be incapable of growing facial hair at an even rate, whether throughout the beard or on certain sides of my face. Once again it seems as though the right side of my beard is growing at a more rapid rate than the left or center. Not only that, but the right side is growing in thicker...thus the natural sweep to the right you see in the photo above. Like the necessity for alignment of car tires that are suddenly pulling to one side or another it would seem that I need some creative trimming to even out this situation. That is counterproductive, not to mention against the spirit of this whole affair, so it is not happening!

Of course, many people like to point this out, more so the adults around my school than the kids, who have already begun to regret the challenge they posed to me a few short months ago. Now that the beard has entered its middle-ground shaggy phase, the kids have to deal with the untamed hairs reaching in every direction on any given day, and in no particularly predictable fashion. The adults in our school feel it necessary to comment on this, while the kids are giving me cringing looks that tell me I should shave...and do it SOON!

Meanwhile, on the home front, my older daughter enjoys keeping track of the growth and revels in running commentary about how this iteration of the beard/goat is coming in with a lot more white. She has taken to calling me Whitebeard from time to time. That is hardly necessary, though it is apparent that this girl has inherited her father's occasionally biting and always quick tongue. Our younger daughter just vacillates between her desire to see the "Big Beard" return and the need to see me clean shaven.

These are the grueling middle months of beard growth that no one glamorizes. They are the necessary meat in the sandwich of facial hair odysseys--some days you get bologna and others salami--you just have to power through and hope to shake the stink.

Mid-November

It's one thing for growth to happen at irregular rates. I, for one, was a slow-grower. Though I experienced frequent physical growing pains in my legs as a lad, I rarely saw an physical pay-off in the experiences. I actually entered high school just over five feet tall and would eventually skyrocket, in incremental doses, over the next five years, to the towering height of 5'8". Even within my elementary school building, peopled as it is with ladies and children, I am still not a tower of physical stature by any means. In fact, most of the ladies with whom I work are of equal or greater height and the kids who have passed through the school, and especially through my classroom, love to return and marvel at how much taller than me they have grown. Trust me, this is not difficult. Our poor daughters have been shackled by the physical limitations placed on them by my vertically-challenged genes, just as I was held back by my own mother's limited height: she was all of five feet, one-and-a-half inches, and you had better believe that extra half inch was always important!

Even growing up, I had moments when the growth rates of my body did not follow any kind pf symmetrical plan. Aside from my cranium, which by all accounts has always been massive (the genetic gift of my father, the only size 8 fitted hat I have met in person), my limbs did not often cooperate: through high school, college, and into early "professional" life, one of my legs was at least half an inch shorter than the other, causing numerous back issues and the perpetual orthotic insertion of a foam pad my doctor and mother incessantly called a "shoe-cookie," for years, perhaps hastening its entrance into its subterranean landfill domain.

I would love to imagine that this asymmetrical growth does not extend to my hair but that would simply not be true. Last year, during the eight-month beard adventure, I struggled with the truth that the right side of my face grew hair quicker than the left side. I hoped it was simply a matter of accidental trimming while paring the facial garden but as you can see from the photo above (straight-on shot) that habit persists into the Year of the Goat. I am half-determined to leave it alone, combing it under to hide this strange growth-pattern, but why not be proud of it and leave it for all the world to see? After all, it was our Parent-Teacher Conferences this past week and they got to enjoy this phase of the growth, when no amount of manicure and mane-tending can tame the wild growth of the fourth month. Goat ON!

Mid-October

I am getting to this one a little late, but these pictures were actually taken close to mid-October. One must preserve the integrity of the goat journey after all. I am nearing the point at which I will have to shave, or at least thin the moustache portion of this evolving chin-creature. The razor hairs that spike down into my upper lip and grab at the food passing my lips into my mouth have never struck my fancy. Plus, if I were someone who is married to someone whose face was covered in upper-lip hair, this would be the part I would abhor most of all. You simply cannot avoid those gripper-hairs on the upper lip when your face is close to, or actually in contact with, someone else's face and that someone happens to have a moustache. Unless you are Tom Selleck and have the manliest 'stache going, or you lived n the time of Wyatt Earp, or you are Rollie Fingers or Goose Gossage and you just don't give a damn, you must think of your spouse. In case you are wondering, I have not been smooching any gentlemen callers and have never had the misfortune of rubbing noses with any mustachioed men, but I can imagine it would not feel nice, and I have to consider how my wife feels about the entire thing.

That is, after all, the question I have received most often over the past three years, from the themed-beards of Year One, through the massive facial mane of Year Two and now, in Year Three, the the ever-lengthening goat: "What does your wife think of that?" Anyone who has ever read this--so, all six of you--probably already knows the answer: she likes it. I am asked the question in equal proportion from men and ladies; the men always asking with forlorn admiration in the way that so many men think the wifely grass is greener on my side of the fence (hell, I think it is too, but, as my wife is spoken for BY ME, you gentlemen are out of luck!) The men are always amazed when I tell them she likes it, and they usually follow-up by informing me about the beard stranglehold their wives have on them...clean faces only!

The ladies who ask me reveal their feelings about the beard at the same time. Their question is slightly different: "How does you wife feel about your beard?" but their faces when they ask it tell the story well enough. Few have ever asked me without concurrently crinkling their noses or sneering slightly through pursed lips as though to affirm two things I could have already told them: (1) They think it is disgusting and they never would have allowed me to grow one in their house; (2) The reason I would never have been married any of them. Suffice it to say I am a very fortunate man, and not just because my wife does not mind my beard experimentation.

Mid-September

Maybe it has something to do with gravity and the aging process...or maybe it is because these frequently-abused chin follicles have given up any forms of resistance they may have previously proffered. Or maybe it is something else...some unexplained mystery of the goat-growing universe that has allowed this goat to begin its journey on such a strong foot, or chin.

Whatever the cause, even I was a bit surprised by the change in the chin from the first check-in to the second. When our girls were babies we took weekly photos of them with a sign letting viewers know which week of their life it was. But we also took a monthly photo as they reached that milestone. We were always amazed to look at the changes in the month-to-month photos that we had not noticed in the week-to-week photos. How could we not have seen these major changes in their bodies until we reviewed the monthly photos? These two goats are like that.

Many things change over a month. Our school year is now a month old and the kids who stormed the scene on opening day are already quite a bit different from the ones who now sit and work in our classroom. So, for the record, YES, I am comparing my goatee growth to the physical changes in our two daughters in their first years of life and the character changes among the students in my classroom since the beginning of school. Let's keep these things in perspective, here! Step back and view the changes from afar. We never notice we are older until we are, many years later...so why would it be any different with chin hair?

Goat Check: A New Beginning

Well intrepid facial hair explorers and loyal follower(s) I must admit that I thought my mid-July trim of the monstrosity that was attached to my face would be the end of our remotely-accessed time together. How could I know the level of inquisition the beard's departure would cause? Who could have predicted the outcry over such a little--OK, LARGE--thing? Or, the absence of a large thing, rather.

People who had grown so accustomed to the beard suddenly whisked past me without a second glance. But almost all of them followed with a standard double-take-and-turn to ask if it was really me. Many people thought I lost massive amounts of weight or had undergone some sort of medical procedure.

Well, they were correct on one count: I have lost weight (over 20 pounds since January, 2011) and quite a bit more from my face. These people did not know what to make of this sudden change. At least the change was sudden for them. They did not own my face...but when you undertake a process such as this, your face become public property and bystanders make suggestions they deem worthy of overruling your desires by eminent domain.

There are very few people I will listen to when it comes to the growth of my facial hair; the brief run at Beard Democracy last year notwithstanding. One such group to whom I will acquiesce are my students, particularly when they take an active interest. I once thought of opening the Beard Democracy up to them, in a teach-them-voting-and-public-governance kind of way. I decided against it, perhaps wisely.

But this year, on opening day of school, August 16, 2011, my students sat with me for our first read-aloud (9:04 AM) and inquired as to the whereabouts of my facial hair. I had but a short-trimmed goatee at the time, and no plans to do much more than tinker with designs and sink back into general disregard for my facial hair except maybe around Conference and Open House time.

There they were asking me about the beard in one breath and challenging me to grow a new one in the next. As tempted as I was, I doubted I would do the same thing two years in a row. After all, I am not even teaching the same grade as last year, having moved up from Second to Third this year. (I have only four of the same students so you could say there are 17 new victims, er, students.)

It was precisely one of these students--a vociferous eight year old, if ever there was one--who dropped the challenge to me on opening day. How could I not like this girl instantly? Coming in with little knowledge of me and my ways and wasting all of seven minutes before issuing what may yet become this year's quest:

...to grow a goatee the entire school year.

So, here I am, on my way to doing just that. I don't know if I will succeed or just get sick of the whole affair by mid-year and hack away with scissors and nail-clippers one desperate day in the future at my desk, but we'll see how far this thing goes. Check back for the progress of this wayward goat, and maybe you'll see what happens.

Week Forty-Two: July 4th to 10th

Thursday morning began normally enough, but the hazards of Camp reared their ugly heads that afternoon during a ferocious round of Camp Bingo. It concluded with me slicing portions of hair off my face and appearing during that evening's sing-along and parent performance as Jafar, or some updated and infinitely more twisted version of him.

The binder clip was my late-night addition, and mostly so the extended chin hairs would not spend the night traveling toward (and into) my mouth. I forgot about the clip and slept with it on. It proved to be so comfortable that I wore it all the next morning during breakfast and our morning hike as we bade the kids farewell. Then I wore it during that morning's run and as I biked home. By that time it was all-but fused to the hairs on my chin, as I had applied liberal amounts of sculpting gel in a vain attempt to mold my chin hair into that classic Jafar wave.

Once home it was time for a little more trimming which, of course, I took the time to document, as you will see below:

I enjoy this one, and debated keeping it for the next week. The twisty 'stache and gigantic chops were a nice Gangs of New York look. Bill the Butcher I was not.... This photo does give you a good sense of the uneven growth on the opposite sides of my face. I did nothing to trim the burns or the beard until this day, and that really is how much longer the right side was than the left.

Of course, I wanted to see what it looked like with only one massive 'burn and the look did not disappoint.

I thought I would keep this sweet 'stache for the week, waxing the tips and turning the next few days into a handlebar showcase. Maybe that just exceeded the limits of my creepiness because, in the end, as you will see below, that did not happen.

He's got his whole beard, in his hand....

So there it is, the first time I have seen my full face in over nine months. An odd sight, to say the least. Someone who saw me later that day told me I "shaved twenty years off my face." Another wondered "where the rest of (me) went." People at my usual haunts--the Library and Produce Stand, hardly recognized me. I hardly recognize myself.

It was a good run while it lasted, but it was time for a change and time to give my facial follicles a break. Until next time...keep growing!

Week Forty-One: June 27th to July 3rd

In the waning weeks of The Beard it is probably fortuitous that I work at ZooCamp, where the odd is acceptable, if not expected.

What you see here, the second consecutive week in which I tested the flexibility of my chin hair and facial skin by stringing things onto my beard, is my Camp version of Jack Sparrow.

People were actually surprised that this was the first time I had put on guy-liner. It shouldn't be all that surprising...after all, everything else I have done up to this point has been completely normal, right? And if you are wondering, yes, that is a mop atop my dome. The sanity of wearing this for what followed (an hour-long singing and dancing marathon to get the kids fired up for our Camp overnight, and give parents a glimpse of the Camp craziness) is debatable. I do know I had to take the entire thing home to wash it. That yellow shirt was transparent enough with my sweat that you could see chest hair. How exciting! (Though maybe not for everyone involved in the areas outside my shirt.)

These are the waning weeks of The Beard, which is why you will see a photo of it in its nine-month form at the bottom of this post. It has been quite a journey, much like giving birth to a growth on my face, though that was not my intention. As the Summer turns toward July, I would never be able to endure the sweat-mopping aspects of the massive beard any longer. Next week, there will be some cuts.

As it winds down, and grows larger, people have less fear about asking me strange questions. At Sports Authority this week to buy new running shoes, one of the cashiers asked me "how long it took to grow my face." Good one, as it was one I had not yet heard. The folks in the Education Department at the Zoo apparently know me as "The Fierce Beard," which is exciting in its own way. Maybe I will send them the beard in a bag, atop the hair I shaved off my head earlier this Summer.

One of the men working at the Library in town yesterday told me I looked like Tolstoy. That was a new one. The good folks at blogspot will not allow me to copy pictures I do not own into their pages, so the intriguing images I discovered of Tolstoy himself will not appear here. However, if you seek a diversion one day, check out any Tolstoy images and see for yourself...

...separated at birth?

Week Forty: June 20th to 26th

Yes, this was as frightening as it looked and, no, I did not keep this look the entire week. On the one hand, it would have been nice if I ever needed an extra snack throughout the day; on the other, it would have been pretty nasty after several of my longer runs, not to mention the condition of rolled oats after a shower...? Why are all those birds and squirrels flocking to your beard?

Suffice it to say, it was hard enough to get the smell out of my beard. Much like walking into a smoky room or standing anywhere near a campfire, the smell of rolled oats clung to my chin hair like stank to a rediscovered moldy sock.

Of course, all of this was worth it, just to see the looks I got from the parents at the camp sing-along on Thursday night. I imagine their farewlls to the campers as they departed for the overnight: "Have a good night, honey. Have fun...and, by the way, stay away from that man with the breakfast cereal on his face. Something's not right with him."

Perhaps there is something all too right....

It took me about thirty-five minutes to string all of these o's on my face. For each one I had to twist a clump of hair until it put me on the verge of eye-watering pain, then fold over the tips to make what looked like a shepherd's hook. That made it easier to thread through the o in the center of the rolled oat and doubled as a means to hold the o in place once I released my grip.

Classic stuff. Things they never teach you in school.

Week Thirty-Nine: June 13th to 19th

Excellent! I just had to see what this looked like before I started the gradual beard-thinning trim in a few weeks. The warmer it gets here--and living in a river valley, we get the nice beard-clumping humidity--the more I want to pare the look. It's grabbing at my shirt collars and reaching out for my earlobes like the accursed Wrigley ivy. We are close.

Still, what beard-venture would be complete without the always classic hairless look? What really makes me laugh is the number of people who are now so confused that they believe I have trimmed the beard. I can only imagine the internal monologue..."Hmmm, let's see, something is different about his look this week...did he finally listen to all my hints and trim that beard...no, that couldn't be it...but what else could it be...OK, that's it, maybe I should say something...."

This look is now so Viking it scares me, but in a good way.

Week Thirty-Eight: June 6th to 12th

I wondered how long it would take to reach this pre-Dumbledore point in facial farce-itude and then I forgot about it until recently. I was amazed at how much this particular facial arrangement hurt. The rubbery hair-band, not traded with the post-lice-infested girls, yanked at my chin in the way that Joan Rivers must have often experienced facial-tugging. No worries for those of you who care about such things as my personal appearance: I only wore this for the photo. For a photo of this week's beard stick around until the bottom of the page.

I was back at the Zoo this week after many months away and all the people who only see me there during the Summer got a full-facial of the beard in all its chinny glory. Everything that happened gradually over the months of school happened in one glorious week at the Zoo. The reactions ran the usual gamut of shock and awe, but I have to relate one here in its entirety because it captured the greatest beard moment thus far.

It began when I ran into one of the custodians/grounds crew men at the Zoo. He and I have been friendly over the years, telling each other of zoo adventures and family things--he's always curious about why we do the weird things (blonde hair dye, head-shavings, lightning bolt facial hair) we do at Camp so we chat about that often.

He saw me coming out of the Camp tent and he stopped cold...

"Whoa! You grew a beard...!"

"Oh yeah, I just let it go."

"Wow, and that's...that's a different kind of beard too!"

"Yeah, I have heard that one a few times."

"Yeah, man, you look like a Quaker or something."

"Heard that one too."

"You know, if you trim it up, it will look...well, it will look..., it will actually look nice."

Much of the rest of the conversation followed that tone, as he tried to convince me I looked terrible and I eased him into the fact that I could care less. Such is life....

Week Thirty-Seven: May 30th to June 5th

I have spoken previously about the curious phenomenon of beard-drag. I may have first noticed it while running the track behind my school. The wind cuts across it in a curious fashion, slicing through the trees and houses and catching runners at odd angles. For those runners bearing beards the cross-cut is even more pronounced...and interesting.

With school out, my job at the zoo has already begun and whatever I thought I had experienced in terms of beard-drag while running (that light forcing of my head off to the side in a semi-magnetic repulsion) was nothing compared to the resistance while biking. I ride my bike back and forth to the zoo each day and while I had done this earlier in the Spring--when the beard was far less developed--this was an entirely different experience.

I would stop short of equating it to whiplash but if I am to continue the growth through the Summer and into the Fall, with its whipping winds, I might have to begin my travels with neck-brace fortification. One would not want to have to concoct a story to explain why I am wearing a head-halo at the start of the new year..."well, you see, kids, let me give you a piece of advice about beard, biking and the wind...."

Week Thirty-Six: May 23rd to 29th

As Summer nears, the beard is taking over everything: serving as the facial Velcro to anything and everything in sight. It is a well-disclosed fact that the beard will reduce its size this Summer, and eventually disappear altogether. I have no desire to follow in my brother's bearded footsteps. It is his goal to make it the entire year with the beard. Mine was but to make it to Summer.

This was the last week of school for me. A strange time, to be sure, though there were some pointed questions about the beard--none offensive--though, honestly, there is little that sneaks past the beard-shroud and strikes a sensitive, albeit, hairy nerve. Then again, many would argue that I may not possess said sensitive nerve, so there would be little to worry about. At least it gave people something to talk about besides all the classroom troubles they were experiencing in the waning days. "I thought you were getting rid of that thing after the big race...?" "So, when is your big race; I'm sure you are looking forward to shaving that thing off."

No, I never said I would get rid of it after the Tough Mudder.

And, though I do, at times, look forward to shaving this beast from my face, it will be with some sliver of regret. It's hard to say good-bye to all that hard work, just as it is hard to say goo-bye to a group of kids at the end of the school year. But pay attention: if there is one thing that is certain, it is that the beard will go out in style!

Week Thirty-Five: May 16th to 22nd

The most important thing is a strong finish. As the kids and I wrap up our school year together (this week was our second-to-last) we talk a lot about how to finish well. Or, at least I do. I don't know that they are quite as interested in how well they finish but much more in the fact that they are almost finished. My students have been watching our 5th Graders trumpet their year's conclusion for weeks now, and they want their turn. Of course, for my students, they will return in the Fall and have three more years at our school. The 5th Graders rub in all of our faces that they have but days left to grace us with their presence.

As we near the end of the school year, I get questions from the other teachers about if I am going to shave the beard off during the Summer, telling me, "Do you realize how hot it gets here during the Summer?" Having worked outside at the zoo every day of every Summer for the past eleven years I know full well just how hot it gets, so I need not be reminded. As for shaving plans, I am sure I will gradually thin it out as the Summer progresses (each week at the Zoo Camp where I work there are bets about doing crazy things for the kids prior to our Thursday night pre-overnight performance) so I know the beard will not survive the onslaught of bets to come, and that is probably for the best. Until then, grow on!

Week Thirty-Four: May 9th to 15th

Among our numerous responsibilities as Tough Mudders was the obligation to wear our orange headbands to work on the Monday following the race. If you have visited the Tough Mudder site you must surely have seen evidence of such proud behavior...doctors performing surgery in orange headbands (however sterile they might be) and various office cubers donning the splash of color to offset the drab white and gray walls that must crush them daily.

Of course, I forgot to wear my headband on Monday and every other day this week. I rediscovered it on Friday and wore it on the next several runs to show my support and proud finisher status. Personally, I found it matched the beard rather well. When I showed my students the photos from the race they could not figure out why my hair was dark brown and my beard red while my brother's hair was dark blonde and his beard nearly black, in the style of Brian Wilson (the closer for the San Francisco Giants, not the extra-large surf-singer.) Neither can we, but both beards looked extra-solid beneath the bright orange straps of tight-fitting melon elastic. Perhaps it is also why I have once again heard the rekindling of the "Run, Forrest, Run" calls on my daily runs.

Week Thirty-Three: May 2nd to 8th

Words may not be able to capture the unbridled joy of the Tough Mudder. These images are all from the race this past weekend in Vermont: ten miles of running up and down Mount Snow (ski area) with terrain as steep as 25% pitch and a large amount of snow covering the ground, not to mention the other 28 obstacles we faced along the way. Billed as the toughest race around, this course did its best to fulfill that expectation...12-foot plank walls, two 35-degree pond swims, greased monkey bars above a freezing pool and, yes, that photo above IS of the two of us exiting dumpsters full of dyed, slushy water! Nuff said.

Check out toughmudder.com and get involved!

Week Thirty-Two: April 25th to May 1st

And so the racing season begins again. Each year for the past seven years I have been the odd-looking "gentleman" running behind a double stroller in and around town. The odyssey began in 2004 with a single-stroller race and a great deal of pain, but has continued each year after that, even as we added a second daughter and graduated to a double stroller. We gave away that old single stroller and so many times I look back and wish I was only pushing that sleek rig rather than what feels like pushing a parachute full of cinder block.

The past few years I have slacked off a bit on our race schedule. What used to be a two-season affair (Spring and Fall) winnowed to one and a half before finally dwindling to a grand total of two races last year. Mostly I resisted registering for races based on shaky financial footing during both seasons, and that is still the case. However, through the magic of credit cards and a desire to experience the kind of self-cleansing pain that only comes from pushing two girls through heavily-trafficked roadways, trying not to nip runners' heels or implode my own cardiac muscle in the process.

This weekend I was feeling ambitious and I registered for two races. The first was an evening 5K on Saturday, forgetting about the tight streets and gradual hills in South City. A few of those hills slowed us enough that both of the girls--at separate point during the race--said, "Ugh, I could go faster than this!" Though they were far from being correct in that assessment of the speed at that time, it sure felt like it could be true soon. Even still, we grunted and gutted our way to the finish in less-than-record time.

On Sunday we ran another 5K at high noon. This one started and finished on a high school track in my school district, traversing a concrete-slabbed subdivision nearby for a mile or so. There were some quirky hills in this one that caused our younger daughter to say, "Oh, we're not going very fast anymore...we cannot even see that man in the orange anymore." They were not satisfied that we were in second place at that point, apparently.

My payback came during the kids' fun run after our race, when they both had the opportunity to run laps of the track and prove their mettle against time and distance. Our older daughter, who runs like a springing impala, with stride lengths rivaling mine, chased a running juggler for two laps and then finished because no one else appeared to be running anymore. Moments after finishing she told me, "Hold on, Daddy, I'm going to run at least one more lap." I did not let her, but maybe only to waylay the inevitable time when she turns out to be faster than me.

Our younger daughter ran hard from the get-go, and petered out at 200 meters. Yes, the one who assured me she could run faster than the 6:15 pace I was pushing their stroller hit the wall halfway around the track. She clenched her belly with that unmistakable look of "I'm-gonna-hurl" and all I could think of was Will Ferrell's immortal Anchorman line, "Milk was a bad choice!" Right before they both ran, they guzzled a small carton of chocolate milk, despite my warnings about how this would affect them on the run. Oh well, live and learn.

Week Thirty-One: April 18th to 24th

I apologize for the delay in the last few posts...the insidiousness of Internet Explorer 9 stymied my efforts to effectively share flowing beards with the masses (of twelve people, as that is my current follower contingent.)

Now that the hairs around my mouth have begun to extend past their usual twining territory territory I find them grappling with my lips when I awaken each morning. Imagine flexible fish hooks tugging at the corners of your mouth as you try to squeeze a few minutes past the first snooze. As my father would say, "I have little sympathy," and I am sure you feel the same way. My goal is only to relate the experience to you.

Taking the distant view of the growth this week caused many people to wonder why I was dyeing my beard; so let's get this straight: I have attempted to dye my beard in the past (on a bet for the Camp at which I work in the Summer) but that was blonde, and it didn't take. In fact, the dye so ravaged my chin that I was unable to shave for a few weeks after that. Perhaps these early rumblings brought on thoughts of extended bearding adventures...?

But rest assured this growth is all mine, as is its color--attribute it to my combination of Nordic and Scottish roots. I like to imagine Leif Ericson charging down from the Scottish Highlands wearing a kilt and a Viking helmet. If only, if only.

Week Thirty: April 11th to 17th

Maybe because I was much more in the public eye this week--emceeing a Trivia Night fundraiser--I heard abundant unsolicited suggestions about the future direction of my facial hair. More specifically, a great number of people told me, in so many words, that it was just time to shave it all off.

Most people started this conversation innocently enough, "So, what's up with the beard?" or, "What's going on with that thing?" That's what I have noticed over the weeks since I have just let all razors fall by the wayside: people feel free to ask me personal facial questions, and most often refer to the beard as "that thing" when they do so. Most men are more polite about it, telling me they would do it if their wives let them, or that they too engaged in such bearded exploits during the glory days of their youth; their way of empathizing with me before inquiring, "That must drive you so crazy...you want to shave it, huh?"

The ladies have no such pretenses. At the Trivia Night, one lady asked me when I was planning to give up on "that thing" and just shave it. Another told me that she never would have allowed it if she was my wife (which, of course is one of the many reasons she is NOT!) Finally, a third told me, "Look, you are an attractive guy and that beard well, let's just say...it's time."

What people don't understand is how much their resistance to my quest for beard glory strengthens my desire to keep it going. It may annoy my neck and chin (sometimes) but if it annoys them all the time, that's even better. It's my face, feel free to look away. Plus, why not engage in a completely frivolous pursuit just because I can? That is what frustrates them the most: that I would be doing this just because I want to. They imagine there must be some ulterior motive when, really, there is not. Beard on!

Week Twenty-Nine: April 4th to 10th

Pay little attention to the wife-beater in this particular scene...I can assure you it contains no mustard stains and has been featured in no domestic disturbance incidents. (Some days I don't feel like changing out of the undershirts I wear under my white dress shirts before I go for runs. These particular wardrobe-gems always make me think of the wisdom of the Fourth Graders I no longer teach: one day a former student told me, "Hah-hah, I can see your undershirt through your shirt!" Not missing a moment, a classmate turned to him and replied, "Um, yeah, that's why he's wearing it!" It didn't dawn on him that seeing my wife-beater tee was far more desirable than spying my chest-hair-and-nipple shirt.)

Meanwhile the forest on my face has become quite a wilderness. Some days it reacts kindly to the comb-treatment that now takes me far longer than the hair on top of my head; most days it rebels. I have no idea why it treats me so...after all, I am the one hosting this facial infiltration and could just as easily decide to shave and discard it into various trash cans and bathroom drains. But there would surely be some kind of loss that comes from reneging on the commitment I have made here. Still, it could show me some more respect or, at the very least, cooperation.

The longer side--and why exactly there IS a longer side is another question for another discussion--on the right-side jawline, is so unruly I seem to have one of the worst cases of Jeckyll-Jaw I could ever have imagined. (And, yes, I know that Hyde was the beastly incarnation from the Stevenson book, but how many times do you get to drop alliterative devices when referring to rebellious facial hair; so please forgive me the literary faux pas.)

The right side of the beard decides how it will respond to the comb in a different manner each day, and I don't think I could have suspected how much shedding this ropy chin-robe does on a daily basis. I comb it each morning and feel cascades of loose hair strands drop to my chest. Maybe I should just glue them down so I can pull a true Selleck, with the chest-mane to rival the great 'stache....

Week Twenty-Eight: March 29th to April 3rd

There comes a time every Spring when the outdoor "cleaning" takes off: you are out there nearly every weekend and evening, raking, planting, weeding and the like. With last week's poison ivy massacre, my flesh could not handle another possible exposure to rashy contaminants, so I was forced indoors to continue my weeding; this time on my face.

I had to take some of the top-shelf sideburn length down a bit this week, mostly because the length of the hairs were allowing what used to be manageable 'burns to penetrate my ear canal and drive me to near beard-insanity. The hairs were so long and creeping that they actually woke me up several nights in a row. Dry willies notwithstanding, I cannot afford to lose sleep over a beard; my beard devotion runs only so deep. Once that wakeful pattern became apparent, it was time for a little grooming.

Thus, what you now see may not be quite as bushily impressive but it certainly made the lower portion seem more voluminous than before. What used to be a facial topiary, reminiscent of a well-shaped Boxwood, now went reverse military on my jaw--low and tight. It did cause several people at my school to ask me if I was combing it out, or fluffing it out more than usual. It was considerably bushier-looking than any of the beards to date, so there is something to be said for a little crafty grooming.

Now, as to whether I will follow the other prominent suggestion I received most often this week--it's time to shave the thing--well, don't count on it.

Week Twenty-Seven: March 22nd to 28th

It would seem that one of the beauties of what many consider a profession that is not a "real" job would be the many breaks we receive as teachers. Time off at Thanksgiving; Winter Break (nee Christmas); Spring Break (a week in March) and, the pseudo-glorious coup de gras...Summer Break.

The reality is that, even though someone over Winter Break told me my job must be "super-fun, playing with kids all day long," the transitions back into work after even a weekend can be difficult. After more than a week, good luck. If people really understood how much kids' learning regressed over the Summer, they would have all the evidence they needed for ditching the antiquated agrarian calendar. But that is for another day....

For this Spring Break, I let the beard flow, growing shaggy without daily combing, and watched as it gave velcro-grip to my pillow and pretty much everything else it encountered: shirts, zippers, guitar strings, etc. It did keep my face warm as we celebrated our older daughter's seventh birthday on ice (at a local ice skating rink's free-skate.) And, of course, people generally steered clear of me.

In keeping with a semi-annual Spring Break tradition, I managed to score a sweet batch of poison ivy from our backyard. I wasn't even within 200 feet of the actual vine, but such is my allergy that I can seemingly contract it from the random thoughts that may fall on the vine. Enjoy a close-up below:

Pretty gruesome, I know. Such are the maladies of we sufferers, but bonus that there is a nice beard-shot in the background.

Week Twenty-Six: March 14th to 20th

Those among us not blessed with particularly strong chins must find ways to compensate. Though I do not have the weakest chin in recorded history, and most-certainly do not possess a nonexistent chin (what do the skulls of those people look like?) I find it brings out the chin-definition a bit more if I garnish it with some chin-sprout.

In this case, the sprout has reached larger proportions. I took this particular photo after concluding a longer run in which I noticed my shadow-profile several times and saw that it looked like a square-jawed caricature of myself. I had spied something like this over the past week or so, usually while running and almost always when the sun was at my back, but I assumed that could not have been my head. Now, I already have an extremely large head (dwarfed only by my father's enormous size 8-hat-wearing dome among people I have met; and have given that gene to our younger daughter, pictured in the previous post--poor girl, she will not thank me for that) but the shadow-picture I saw was so much more than a large cranium. This was a large jaw.

Add to that the fact that several times this week a breeze caught me cross-ways while running and I actually felt the tug on my beard, drastically slowing my barely-streamlined quality. Now, I have felt the drag of past beards in the water as I swam laps during Summer training, but to be caught by the chin on a run was an entirely different experience.

The beard continues to garner attention from on-lookers and chance encounters. May favorite from this week: one cashier I encountered took a long glance at it and then summed up his opinion with this question, "What is that your rally-beard, or something?" Something like that.

Week Twenty-Five: March 7th to 13th

Ah, the Springtime! The bulbs begin poking through the thawing ground; the birds begin invading the yard to catch early grubs; the beards are flowing.... And, it is the annual Elementary School rite of passage: the Spring Conferences.

Why not take a moment to discuss the progress of your child, our class, and my beard. Let us, for a moment, take pause to look back at how far we have all come this year...and would you please stop staring at my beard?

I didn't really see many parents confounded by the beard, though more and more of the kids discover it every day. It is a strange thing when a beard can sneak up on anyone, even after nearly four months of growth. Why not fluff it out this week for Conferences and see what happens. Pardon me while I pull up a few adult chairs to our round table...one for you...one for me...oh, and two kid-sized chairs for my beard.

The reactions are coming in strong from all camps, as some now join the beard-wagon and all-but shout words of encouragement about the strength and length (nearly two inches at the chin and right jawbone, though only about 1 1/2 inches at the left...?) of the beard. But just as many urge me to trim, shape, or delete it altogether. Not so fast. One of my former students, who has not seen much of me in the past year, stopped by after school the other day, leaned her head in, revealed a look of confusion, shock and revulsion, then turned and ran off, saying, "Oh my God, what happened to your face?"

Something amazing!

Oh, and a two-fer this week: our youngest daughter asked me to come to her preschool's Special Friends Day last Thursday. I am not sure where she is in the photo, but she may be that little kid behind the beard...

Week Twenty-Four: February 28th to March 6th

Maybe there are times your beard occludes your vision in such a way that you take horrible spills and ransack the skin on and around your hand. Or maybe you just shouldn't run at night....

There are sometimes harsh penalties to be paid by those who run at night, and my hand was the recipient of one of those penalties. In keeping with pop-law, this accident happened close to home, which was probably a good thing considering the blood loss. Just as with the infamous bike accident of a few years back, when an oncoming car turned quickly in front of me from a center turn lane and found me doing a tumble up and over their car, this accident also happened within sight of my home. Of course, in this accident no one yelled at me ("Boy, what the HELL are you thinking?") and no one was really around to witness it, as it occurred at about 10:30 on a weeknight.

Sometimes the sidewalk jumps up and bites you, what can I say? The hand is in recovery, though painfully scabbing over as I type. I still wear a glove to bed so I do not bleed all over our sheets and make my side look like a murder victim's chalk line. (It's already bad enough that my sweat so discolors the sheets on my side that we have to rotate and wash them a bit more frequently.) It is the rib on my right side that bothers me a bit more, and time will tell if landing on that hand and another chunk of sidewalk was enough to crack it, or just bruise it. Breathing is an issue, but the lack of bubbling, rattly fluid tells me there is at least no puncture, and I was back to running the next day, so it cannot be all that bad, right?

The beard is becoming evermore increasingly difficult to tame. Some of the mothers of students at our school asked me this week if it drove me nuts or, again, if my wife was tired of it. I told them the only tricky part was that grooming/combing this face-rag took longer than it did to push my hair into position day after day. As for my wife not enjoying it, well, her affinity for it is well-documented in past posts.

Next week? To the ruler! I fear the length is not all the same, and one must worry--or not--about uniform facial growth.

Week Twenty-Three: February 21st to 27th

And then comes the haircut. Despite what you may believe, and owing to my desire to sport serious jaw-mane, you would think I am equally comfortable growing hair all over my head. This could not be further from the truth.

As a lad, I was held captive by the whim of finances and my mother's desire to allow the hair of her sons to grow out to John-Paul-George-Ringo lengths, evolving into that hair-over-the-ears look I now so affectionately call my "Planet of the Apes" look. I did not like it at the time, but before I started pulling in the big bucks at Burger King, I was not calling the shots on my coif. Once I could, the hair came off at regular intervals, as I frequented a local barber who spoke in such fast southern-New-Hampshirean dialect that only those of careful auditory aptitude and ability to tune out the drone of the clippers in your ear could attend to his conversation. Thank you Tom!

Nowadays, though still handicapped by finances--hey, I am a teacher after all--I do get the more than occasional haircut. Usually I can make it from the Summer head shave until about Thanksgiving, and then again until almost February. The unruly neck hair, the thicket I have to wet comb, and, very nearly gel, forces me to scrape the funds together for a trim. This is when I pull a walk-in and the fine folks at Great Clips ask me, "You want me to use which clippers?" (A one on the sides and six on the top, if you are similarly-inclined.)

This time, however, was a wholly different experience, as most of my pre-cut instruction was in a series of pleas about the care to be taken around the fringes of the beard. "Now, be sure you leave the sideburns...when you reach the neck, please don't trim the jawline extensions...." Even still, the elderly woman who crafted such an otherwise fine 'do, caused my heart to leap a bit when she snipped off the sideburns on both sides, but left the right side a bit shorter than the left. I left it. Every beard journey needs the tracks of the adversity it endured along its path to amazing.

When she finished, I was all-too-please to look in the mirror and, nearly disregarding her question about how it looked, spy, for the first time, The Jullet. Whereas the Mullet is the hockey haircut known to be "business on the top and party in the back," The Jullet is business on top and party underneath! Enjoy.

Weeks Twenty-One and Twenty-Two: February 7th to 20th

Welcome to the hidden reality of bearding:

Larger and shaggier beards, though truly awe-inspiring and, perhaps, envy-producing, make people uneasy. At least most people feel even more free to say things they would never ordinarily say to people.

Phase One:
"So, you're really letting that thing grow out, huh?"

"Huh, that beard's getting pretty long."

"Wow, I haven't seen a beard worn like that before."

Phase Two:
"So, are you planning to shave that thing?"

"That's a pretty long beard. When are you gonna shave it?"


Phase Three:
"OK, so that beard--you must be getting pretty tired of it now, huh?"

"Wow, that is some beard, doesn't it drive you crazy?"

"That's what you are wearing on your face?"

"Um, yeah, I think it's time to shave. that thing!"

Yes, but you see, the thing is, when you spend this much time cultivating the facial moss-mat like this, you get to enjoy it as much as you might a good pair of socks or favorite shirt, and I can attest that it is at least as warm as the good socks, and not nearly as holey as that shirt. Plus, whereas things of mine, like wardrobe items, that would once qualify as "best," because of their particularly ratty, ragged, or holey attributes, seem to disappear in the loads of laundry that I don't get to before my wife. I have no fear that I will wake up freshly-shorn because she actually enjoys, promotes, and endorses this entire project. And this despite the most frequently-uttered comment/question: "So, you're wife must be getting pretty tired of that..." OR "Well, how does your wife like that?" OR "Sure, you like it, but what does your wife think of it?"

However long this beard lasts, and it will be at least until the end of this school year/beginning of the Summer, it won't disappear because of public peer pressure, nor because of my wife asking me to get rid of it. Count on it!

Week Twenty: January 30th to February 6th

OK, so I'll be the first to admit, I have a long way to go, or grow, as it were. On the bottom, if you have even noticed, is me, with the Snow and Ice Beard in honor of the winter weather we have had much of in the past week. (We had three snow days! The Summer will now commence that much later.)

On the top, which is probably so occupying your attention you may not even be reading this text, is the absolute beard eclipse currently under cultivation by my brother. To be fair (to me) he does have at least a month-and-a-half head start on me.

The plan for these Bro-Beards is to continue growing them at least until the first weekend in May. Why, you may ask? That is the weekend we two bearded brothers will find ourselves traipsing about the slopes of Mount Snow in Southern Vermont. Late-Spring snow? No, nothing of the sort. We will be one of the many semi-psychotic teams running in the Mudder, a challenge designed to test stamina and mental fortitude. (Check it out at toughmudder.com.)

How long will these beards be by then? It is difficult to say. The tangled jaw-mane already ensnares my shirt collars, ties, and jacket zippers throughout the day. My students perpetually test the depth during our read-alouds, sinking their fingers into my jawline and marveling that they disappear up to the second knuckle. "Whoa! I can hardly see my finger anymore!" I will resist the urge to inquire about recent hand hygiene and general cleanliness....