All beards go to heaven.
By Owen Parsons
KEVIN & JOSH stand somberly outside the bathroom door. ANU
What's going on?
Owen's in there shaving his winter
beard. We're giving him some space.
This is the women's restroo-
OWEN stares at himself in the mirror, a trimmer in his hand.
This is an emotional, Old Yeller-style moment.
Well, buddy. We had a great season.
But it's getting warm outside, and
well... it's time to say goodbye.
He holds up his trimmer. Tense moment as it approaches the
beard hair. He nervously drops it at the last second.
I can last a few more months. It'll
be a mite itchy come August, but-
CU on Owen's reflection in the mirror - his BEARD grows a
superimposed mouth and starts talking with a wise,
world-weary voice. Emotional music plays.
It's okay, Owen. Don't be afraid.
Who's afraid? I'm not afraid.
We knew this day would come. It's a
winter beard's lot in life.
Don't you dare say that to me.
Don't you dare be the brave one.
I'm not some young September
stubble any more. No sir, Phillip
C. Beard's been around this face
once or twice by now, and he knows
that when the warm breeze of May
wafts across your whiskers, it's
time to journey on.
You're name's Phillip?
Heh. Guess there's still a lot we
don't know about each other.
I don't how to live without you.
Owen hangs his head, resting his hand on the counter. A HAND
SHAPED EXTENSION OF BEARD rests atop his, comforting him.
You'll remember. Hurry on, now.
Owen braces himself, then jabs his beard with the trimmer.
He drops to one knee, a big patch missing from his beard.
Phillip now speaks up to him from a clump of hair in his
hand. Heavenly music plays.
I see... the light of Providence.
All the beards that came before me.
A bunch of SPECTRAL BEARDS appear and float around them.
Close-up as he names them.
Winter 2010. Winter 2009. And who
could forget, Lil' Scraggles, '08.
Your time was too short, my friend.
Close on Lil' Scraggles, a thin beard with an earnest, Tiny
It may have been an early spring,
but I'd not trade my time here for
all the mustache wax in Belgium.
Owen spies a small floating tuft of hair.
Who are you?
I'm the chin beard you grew
sophomore year! Remember arguing
with your girlfriend that I made
you look so metal?
Ugh. Now I do.
Finish the job, Owen. Send me to
the Mountaintop of Eternal Autumn,
where beards roam wild and free.
FADE TO: Inserts of disembodied beards floating through a
Valhalla-style beard paradise.
Where the flannel flag flies above
peaks that have never known summer.
Where untamed beards dip deep into
thick, savory stews without fear of
judgment. Send me there, to rustle
among my whiskery ancestors.
Owen tearfully raises the trimmer to his face.
Wait! My last wish...
Anything, old friend. What is it?
The last wish of all beards...
Shave me... into a goofy mustache.
Bagpipe music plays as a portrait of Owen's beard hangs in
memorium. Owen, in a goofy mustache, salutes it.