My Christmas Beard
January 26, 2009
My beard has gotten the better of me; Perhaps the whole. It was born of indolence; defiance; this seedy, steady, gesture of uncaring. This deliberate holiday disrepair. If I had to suffer through Christmas I’d do so in the guise of a old tyme strike breaker; whiskers wet with the blood and gristle of unionist agitators. I also rarely wore pants: there was no deeper reason for this; I’ve just never enjoyed them.
Christmas passed. The beard outlived the season. It thickened and curled and hung in heavy garlands down my throat. I would awake to find it soaked in tears and filled with cryptic notes from my cats: “You dreamt of summer thieves again…meet me tomorrow”. I should have been alarmed.
Over time I began slouching and lurking about for no particular reason. I found myself rolling up my sleeves and adding straps to my boots, that I might pull at them: my work ethic increased, though my industry was largely of the glaring at passer-by’s type. The Jewish lass became concerned, and began speaking against it. I attempted to lash out verbally, but the moustache made my lips so numb I asked her to marry me. She declined. The beard delighted.