The Beard

I haven't shaved for two months, and I never thought people would care, or notice, as much as they have. My wife, the only person whose opinion about my facial hair matters to me (for obvious reasons, which modesty compels me to omit), is fine with it. She's fairly forgiving of my eccentricities as I am of hers, a symbiotic state of matrimony. Everyone else, by which I mean my mother, brother, kids, neighbors, colleagues, fuck, even strangers, has an opinion.

I know that this beard is a conscious attempt on my part to tap into that less public side of me, the side that doesn't give a shit what you think, the side that wants to look like he hasn't sold out to the man. This thing on my face is far beyond the trendy, hipster whiskers that 20 somethings run around sporting. Mine is grey and red and brown and scraggly and, generally speaking, homelessesque. This is the way I like it. We all have that side of us that we keep submerged. Shit, there are times when my inner self doesn't even know, or very much like, the fucker who is speaking through my mouth. When I'm working my job, teaching, dealing with my own kids, I frequently find my self saying things I don't believe in or practice. I don't think I'm alone in this. You, dear reader (no plural necessary here), have surely felt this way. Those of you that know me must be thinking, "Fuck, if this is the filtered Sluggy, what kind of sick, degenerate bastard lives underneath?" To which I respond, "few people truly know". The one's who do know are equally (or nearly equally) perverse, and I love them each for that.

Don't get me wrong here. I am not lying awake at night, cursing my fate, believing that my life is all a lie. I have grown more comfortable with the work me, the family me, the father, the teacher, the bargaining team member. Still, the bar fight me has never left. Unlike Todd Snider, whom I saw in concert last night, I have sold out to some degree, and, also unlike Todd Snider, I have never been convicted of a crime. It's a trade off, a tight rope walk over a life that comes close enough to being out of control to be fun, but no so close as to leave visible marks, except for the beard.