Grizzly Beard

Chicago is a bearded city. Facial hair carries a lot of currency here, brings a lot of cred with it, and, inevitably, like a new pair of Roos at the top of the monkeybars (or last week at the Empty Bottle, now that I think about it), also brings a lot of mad-dogging and aggressive jealousy and the like.

And my beard has served me well, certainly. But things have gotten a little out of hand. I keep forgetting to buy new batteries for my digital camera, but rest assured, my face situation is approaching critical. So it's almost time to shave. But before that, a shout out to the haters:

1. Dude at the coffee shop with a ratty, patchy excuse for a beard, fuck you. I know you take a long time to refill my coffee not because you're busy frothing up some soy/espresso concoction, but because in your heart of hearts you know your beard will always elicit looks of pity, while mine draws in nothing but awe, like some black hole in my face. And you need some new records - even though I have my cans on when I visit your establishment, in the back of my mind I know one of seven Wilco tracks, one of four Belle & Sebastian tracks, or something from Chutes Too Narrow is playing, and it drives me crazy. You are bland.

2. Girl at the record store who thinks I'm like 40, fuck you. I know about Bloc Party, I just don't care.

3. People who avoid me on the train, you're cool. Thank you, I would like to take your seat.

4. Kyle, my roommate, thank you for shaving your beard, even though it was looking pretty good. We dress similarly most of the time, and I don't need the extra stares that matching beards inevitably draw.

5. Zit under my beard, fuck you. You have taken advantage, and it will not be tolerated.

6. Bob Ross, I miss you.