Beards: A Hairy Situation

I can't grow a beard. Maybe you can relate. For example, maybe you're a woman. But maybe you're like me - a hairless dude in a world of hairy dudes, some of whom, for added sting, are named Harry. Maybe you, too, have a face as smooth as it is a face. It's not so fun.

There's an upside to being the devon rex in the litter box of hairy dudes - no back hair, or ass hair, no hair pretty much anywhere besides on your dome and surrounding unmentionables - but there's also a downside: we rank lower on the manly-meter. That's right, we're less manish. We, the smooth-cheeked, aren't axe-carrying, blue-ox befriending quicker-picker-upper paper towel spokesmen. No. We are not the type of guys who answer the phone, "Go," or answer a knock on our door with "She's open!" We're more "Hello?" and "Please come in" people, as we have more time to soften our etiquette with all the time we save not shaving.

I don't want a beard, that's not it - I want the option to grow a beard. Because every man, whether he wants a beard or not, loves the idea that if he were in a plane crash and has to live on a deserted island for, like, six years, when the rescue chopper comes, he will emerge from the brush with just a big, motherloving beard. With crab shells and coconut milk all in it. The kind of beard that makes animals no longer fear you. The kind of beard that says, "Yes, I'm wearing a loin cloth, but maybe I can kill a lion." Not me. I'd scamper out of the bushes all baby-faced. The rescue chopper would leave me. I'd look like a guy who was on a deserted island for a couple days and just couldn't wait to wear a loin cloth, and no one wants to give that guy a ride home.

There are other must-have-a-beard men out there. Let's identify:

Cavemen. Think about it: if you go as a caveman for Halloween, no beard means you're a lady caveman, and nobody wants to be a lady caveman. A beard is absolutely essential. Same goes for dwarf, God, and hobo. Real hobos and Halloween hobos know, a beard means "I've been at this a while." No beard hobo means you're a social work major doing an undercover experiment about panhandling, and let me save you the trouble: no beard hobos make much, much less.

Doctors. They love beards, although I don't trust doctors with beards. What are they hiding? Plus, who knows what disease just leapt from that leper you were just applying ointment to and into your doctor-beard. I don't know, but my guess is leprosy, and now you're giving me a physical/leprosy, thanks to your host-beard. Thanks. When my hand falls off, I'm going to throw it at you (or, as we in the leper community call it, "I'm going to punch you").

Professors. The "intellectually graying professor-beard" with the coffee-stained moustache is a prerequisite for teaching literature, science or math. Otherwise, what will they scratch when you ask a tough question? Think about the alternatives, and then thank the beard.

Biblical Patriarchs. If you're going to lead the people of Israel to the Promised Land, you'd better have the beard to back that move up, or at least that's what movies have taught me. What's the point of eating all that milk and honey anyway if it doesn't get all up in your ancient-beard? That was the BC equivalent of a "I've been to the Promised Land and all I got was this milk and honey in my beard" t-shirt.

Creepy RA. We all know that creepy RA who's only twenty but still has a full, lush beard. He also has Birkenstocks, a corduroy sports jacket with purple elbow patches and an acoustic guitar with which to woo the incoming freshman ladies who have father-figure issues. Right now he's writing a song in his room, strumming his six-string, wondering what rhymes with "ignore the brie in my beard."

And finally, Eccentric Billionaires. Let me just say, if you're going to invite me to your secluded mansion for dinner and brandy, only to release me into the woods and hunt me afterwards, you'd better have a beard. I'm serious. If you don't have a beard, just shoot me with that archaic musket rifle now. No fun for you? Well, your lack-of-beard is no fun for me, sir. The venison was delicious, however. Now stop shaving and call me in a few weeks.