When I was a little kid, during the days of Magnum, P.I. and Bruce Aune’s Ron Burgundy-esque mustache, I thought men were predestined to have mustaches or beards. If a mustache grew on a man’s face, that was that and there was nothing he could do about it. For that reason, I really hoped I would not have a mustache. I dreaded having a mustache. I never gave much thought about a beard, probably because there were no famous beards in the mid-eighties (at least I cannot think of any right now), but I really did not want a mustache.
I have no clue when I realized that men had the free will to manage their facial hair with razors and trimmers, but when I did I was very relieved. The mustache of my nightmares would never terrorize my face in real life.
Anyway. I am not sure what the hell I’m getting at here, but, long story short, beards, mustaches, goatees, and whatnot are not really my thing. Three or four days worth of stubble is enough facial hair for me. Despite that, though, I decided to participate in No-Shave November. I shaved on my birthday and then let my facial hair grow. (I did not let it all grow, though. I learned from a past beard experiment that I should shave my neck, otherwise I will look like Hans Klopek from The ‘Burbs.)
Needless to say, after I turned the calendar this morning I busted out my trimmer and the ol’ Mach3. My red beard is now just a pile of clippings on my bathroom counter, waiting to be composted.