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.