"I Am A New Man, I Grew A Beard of Shame" an(other) Essay by Nick Gregorio

A Beard of Shame is a type of facial hair growth that a man (or a woman, with some sort of hormonal anomaly) grows when he realizes that, no longer, does he have a female counterpart (a girlfriend, to use the parlance of our time) to appease or impress. Lagwagon hits the situation on the nose with the lyric, On the day she left me, facial hair grew miraculously. I dressed in black like Johnny Cash and grew this beard of shame. I have grown a Beard of Shame.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that a beard can’t be considered a stylish and manly fashion choice. In fact, in my opinion, beards are, what I like to describe as, the tops. There have been many times where I’ve witnessed men (dudes) pulling off beards in severely awesome ways and subsequently said, “Wow, that’s severely awesome,” and immediately regretted lathering up and shaving that morning. I am extremely pro beard, but the Beard of Shame is a completely different classification of beard altogether. Its title alone suggests that it’s not as cool, or as manly, as a normal beard and, although it may look awesome, it lacks said severity to the grower.

How about a little personal history lesson?

Up until now, since the year 2000, I’ve never been without a female counterpart (a girlfriend). Sure, there was a week or two here, a week or two there, but I’ve never gone without a girlfriend or any girlfriendly prospects since the age of fourteen (if one could consider a fourteen year old buy lucid enough to consider a girl of the same age an actual girlfriend). I just went from one young lady to another, to another, without any problem. Whenever one door slammed shut, another suddenly opened just as quickly. Over the years I’ve held hands in ice skating rinks, slow danced with enough room for Jesus between us, made out in movie theaters, had boutonnière pins jabbed through my coat, shirt and undershirt, directly into an unsuspecting nipple, I’ve lied and said What Women Want was a good flick, stayed over in the dorm rooms of several collegiate flings, worked in a store where the girl I was seeing was one of the managers, gone to the Moshulu (a froofy restaurant on a big sail boat) for Valentine’s Day and thought I could actually afford it. I’ve done it all. And whenever one “relationship” (I use quotes for the ice skating days) ended, there was always another young lady willing to put up with my bumbling sentences and sweaty armpits. But, this time, all I’m left with is this type of situation:

*BRRRRIIIING* (Roll the R’s)

Bosstones Prime: u smell nice

*BRRRRIIIING*

Bosstones Prime: ur pretty

*BRRRRIIIING*

Bosstones Prime: lets date lol

I’m left with no skills (game, to use the parlance (again)), no prospects, and a beard (which, although it may look cool as hell, its name suggests that it’s not).

Now, this isn’t supposed to be a silly, yet somewhat sad piece about how my girlfriend blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. No, I’m going to try to construe the Beard of Shame as a positive thing, something to draw out a man’s inner awesome.

Ok, let’s look at a hypothetical example, shall we? Say my friends and I are partaking in the imbibition of some frosty libations at a bar. In this bar, my buddy Jerred accidentally knocks over some meathead’s (you know the type: orange skinned from all the artificial tanning lotion, greasy blow-out hair cut, gold cross hanging from his neck, sunglasses in a poorly lit establishment) beverage. Said meathead says, “Psshh. What the fuck, bro?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, psshh what the fuck, bro? You spilt my drank.”

“Oh, so I did.”

“You wanna go, bro?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, you gotta prahbum.”

“Do I, now?”

“Yeah, you do.”

That’s when Jerred will put his arm around Meathead’s shoulder and say, “See that guy over there?” as he points in my direction.

“Yeah?”

“He’s got a beard, he’s easily a foot taller than you. He’ll tear your arms off if I ask him to.”

Meathead’ll say, “That beard scares me.”

“It should, bro.”

“Sorry about putting my drink in your way.”

“Quite alright. Now buy me a beer.”

I can be thought of as the tough and frightening loose cannon with a history of tearing people limb from limb, just because of my sheer height accompanied by the Beard of Shame. Meathead didn’t realize that it’s a Beard of Shame, thusly Meathead piddles in his designer jeans. Granted, if this were to actually take place, Meathead would jaw Jerred, mosey on over to me and say, “I hear you wanna tear my arms off.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

I’d lean in close, say, “Can I see you outside?”

In the parking lot I’d remove my wallet from my pocket and let him have it. “Ok,” I’d say, “I
have twenty-three dollars in here, it’s yours. I’ve got a gift certificate to Applebee’s for a free appetizer; I hope you like that place, they’ve got good stuff. Uh, here’s my debit card, I’ll write my pin on the back. There’s only about fourteen bucks in there, but I get paid tomorrow. Should be a good check, I worked sixty hours in the last pay period. I’ll deposit it right into checking as soon as I get it, no worries, you can have it all. Just don’t overdraw cuz I’ll have to ask you to pay the charge.”
“You’ll pay the charge.”

“Yep. Yes, I will.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve got a cell phone and some chap-stick.”

“What kind?”

“Burt’s Bees.”

“I’ll take both.”

“Ok, sure. How about some gum? You like Dentyne?”

“I’m an Eclipse kinda guy.”

“Oh, so I can keep it?”

“Nope.”

“Fair enough.”

Ok, so it may seem ridiculous, but the beard creates an illusion. I can be a whole different person; if not to anyone else, at least to myself. Everyone needs a little change, I feel, when the future you’ve been working toward gets tossed out the window, flushed down the toilet. That being said, the Beard of Shame isn’t really shameful at all. It’s a constant physical reminder that I can be who I want to be, no matter who that might be, whenever I want to be someone, anyone else. I can stop being “Relationship Guy” and become “Make-out Guy”. I can be the witty guy in the bar who sidles up to a pretty young dame, feeds her a clever comment and goes home with a phone number written on his hand. I can be the rugged looking guy who’s too cool for everyone around but still manages to get the ladies to swoon. I can be anyone, do anything, all because I want to be something other than these nervous feet and sweaty pits, if only for a little while.

See, I don’t have one certain future anymore, which, in a way, is rather nice. I can wake up every morning and roll with the proverbial punches. No future besides the very next minute, the next deep breath, the next heartbeat. Some may argue and say that planning things out is the only way to live, the only way to get on with life, but they’re just schemers, too afraid to strap on a pair of big-boy pants (or grow a beard, in this case) and let whatever might pop up just pop up.

On the day the beard started making its first appearance, Christina reached into her purse for a folded up sheet of paper. She had taken notes, points she wanted to touch on and make clear so that my feelings wouldn’t be hurt, or my inevitable question, “why?” wouldn’t have to be asked. I thought this was sort of funny, she was very much the same person I’d spent so much time with; she was always a note taker. For two years she’d taken notes for everything: birthday gift ideas, my favorite beers, or authors, or bands, all sorts of things. She was doing the best she could to make it easier on the both of us.

I said, “You can put that away.”

She did. That was pretty lousy of me, I admit.

“I can’t have you as my safety net anymore,” she said. “I need to learn how to pick myself up
on my own. The job, moving out, all of it. I need to learn.”

My brain immediately shifted to Michael Cain, asking Christian Bale, “Why do we fall?” in Batman Begins. The response is, “So we can learn to pick ourselves up.”

Both Christina and Mr. Cain made a whole lot of sense at that moment. Did it mean that Christina, one day, would take up the moniker of Batgirl? No (admittedly, however, that would be rather awesome. Not to mention, sexy as hell), but that’s what we can do now; pick ourselves up. Once again, despite going our separate ways, we’re able share a common goal.

I can’t offer any profound revelation about how to deal with a little downturn of luck. I can’t do that at all. I’ve never been that great at dishing out advice, so I’m not going to even try. I grew my Beard of Shame because of a punk rock song that was written more than ten years ago, and, wouldn’t you know, the singer, Joey Cape, has a beard despite the fact that he’s married and has a couple kids. So, I guess everything I’ve said thus far is a load of bullshit. But I can safely say that I can do what I want, be who I want, whenever I want, as I’ve said before, and it’s not because of some beard, it’s because, every now and then, I’d like a little change that I have some control over. I can shave when I get tired of looking like a mountain man. I can grow a beard in under two weeks because I’m a freak of nature. I can change like a chameleon, put on a mask like Batman. Hell, maybe I’ll even try to be “Make-out Guy”, the guy just looking for a good smooch, for a little while. Although I think I might have to lose the beard for that one.