Wednesday, May 21, 2003
I think that I'm going to grow a beard.
I know what you're thinking: why would you want to cover up that exquisitely chiseled face with cheekbones that Clint Eastwood would strangle Angelina Jolie over?
I don't know, it's just time. I see the Brad Pitts, the Sean Connerys, the Grizzly Adamses covering classic visages in soft fur. The Joe Pescis and the Bob DeNiros playing slightly unhinged drifters. Those weird Mexican kids with that genetic werewolf malfunction. And I want in.
It's nearly summertime in L.A. While most of the beard-eligible men in this town are opting for the clean-shaven look appropriate for long naps on the Malibu beach, I'm going to set myself apart. I'll hide my menthol Barbisol and Mach 3 razor underneath that stack of Black Inches magazines that Lara Flynn Boyle left in the corner of my apartment three months ago, which I've been terrified to disturb, which just sit there, daring me to take a quick peek and forever doom myself in the knowledge that it's slightly possible I'm not as endowed as the average Black Inches centerfold.
But the beard will grow.
In a few weeks, I'll be getting the "did you lose your razor?" comments. Well, not exactly. I know precisely where the razor is.
Within two months, I won't even flinch at the horribly out of date Unabomber jokes. I may even court them by wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a huge pair of sunglasses and a comically exaggerated fear of technological advance.
And then, once it's possible for me to balance a hard-boiled egg in my facial thicket, I will shave. There will be no warning.
Lara Flynn will get a phone call. Pick up those damn magazines, and I better not see those eyes wander below my beltline.