Hairy Dream

In what might better be described as a nightmare, I dreamed that I grew a beard. Now, you might not think that this is such a big deal, but it is. The adolescent boy begins to have a fascination with facial hair at an early age, and by this I mean too early an age. In other words, he might begin experimenting with a beard years before he is able to fully grow one. Or, what's worse, he might be satisfied with a mustache, such as a 14 year old can grow, and let me tell you, this is not a pretty sight.

This descent into bad taste may not be enough. So, although he may well shave off the facial abomination, it doesn't mean that the fascination has ended. So, many, like me, decide to grow a beard, perhaps in University when one can least afford it. In the pursuit of women, a beard is of no assistance, something I learned far too slowly. Well, it was of no assistance to me anyway. And yet, I grew a beard twice, once in my undergrad and once during my second masters program, where clearly the Library of Congress Classification System messed with my head so much that I had to experience subject headings personally.

Then there was an extended Christmas break one year when I ventured into the territory of the Van Dyke, but I shaved it off when my boss said: "I don't like that," and a co-worker said: "you look old and decrepit." My dad, of course, was no less candid and announced that I looked far too hippyish for his tastes. He clearly worried about the influence of drugs. His style of haircut centered on the crew cut or the brush cut and he would have gladly paid to inflict that on me.

I've learned that, unless I become totally bald, I'll stick with a clean-shaven face, but I do have the urge, from time-to-time, to try a Robertson Davies or a ZZ Top beard, but that would take far too long, and I'd get bored.

Of course, many men carry off a beard very well. They just do not seem to agree with the shape of my face.

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