Miscellaneous: A Short Pony Beard
It’s time to address the business of the goatee, latest in male hipness. Is it fashion, rebellion, or boredom? Could it be a passing fad, or will the president of our great country one day be sporting one too? And should anybody really give a shit anyway? Well, I certainly do.
I acquired my first goatee just a couple of years ago in college, back during my hippie phase. At the time, it kind of seemed natural, or at least exciting to experiment with the hair on my face. My mornings in front of the mirror revealed patchy outcroppings below my cheekbones, which I certainly thought was cool, but soon realized it looked like shit. Down around the chin was another story, as I noticed a distinct, consistent little shrub begin to take form. I must have liked it because I went with it, patiently waiting until it blossomed in full.
I don’t recall seeing many of my brethren with a similar growth at that time. I do remember some of the looks that people gave me while in public. Acknowledging the fact that I didn’t have a single date for the duration of my hipness. The only satisfaction I actually did achieve was showing up at my mom’s house totally out of the blue, freaking the shit out of her.
All of a sudden one day, a friend of mine pointed at my face and said “It looks like a golfball. HAHAHAHAHA!” Thus ended my days of the goatee. Or so I thought…
After finally achieving what I believed to be a full beard, bearing just the slightest resemblance to Charlie Manson, I gave up on the whole hair thing, shearing both the locks on my face and chin. It was quite pleasant to see a totally different new me, all squeaky clean. I even discovered something. My hair is curly! It’s wavy as shit. My world opened up. People offered me jobs. Girls started talking to me, and cooked my favorite dinners. Life was easy.
I won’t kid you, life was still dull. My job was dull, the women who flirted were dull, and my mom lives a couple thousand miles away. I started to remember how much I hate to shave, how much I hate to pay for haircuts, and how much I loved to flap my locks around at punk rock gigs. I also remembered how greasy and hot long hair is. What was I to do?
Well, I hate to pander to the anger of fashion. The only time I truly got suckered into a major statement concerning fashion was when I stopped wearing underwear after watching Betty Blue, but that’s hardly noticeable. When my goatee came back, I again thought it was merely instinct. You see, my electric razor is plugged into the only socket in the bathroom, which is hooked up to the light switch. By the time I’m ready to shave in the morning, I only have enough juice in my razor to just get the sides of my face as well as the underside of my chin (and even that’s a bitch). The rest of my facial hair spirals around from upper lip to chin, with just a patch hanging in the center. I’m not even sure if it’s considered a goatee, but I don’t give a shit. I’m happy with it.
Content in my own little world, I one day noticed something fascinating. I was at Burt’s Tiki-lounge and every single male in the band had a wisp of hair sprouting from their chin. No shit! The band was filled with pretty women and everyone was having a great time. I was pleased.
Soon after, everywhere I went was goatee territory. There were goatees of all shapes and sizes, small runty things, beautiful full bloom forms, as well as the occasional strokes of artistry that makes you step back and say “Jesus Christ!” Finally, it’s a movement, and one that we can be proud of. It’s wild and quite individual and it can’t be purchased at Nordstrom’s! Now when I walk down the streets I walk with pride, and a big “Fuck You” to those with slanderous thoughts running in their heads. “Fuck You,” I say, as I twirl and play with my little friend on my chin.
Check out more from the SLUG Archives:
Miscellaneous: Dance Club Etiquette
Theatre: Thanatos and Jesus Mania
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