Oh, Beard

Soon my beard will go.

It will still be cold outside, and the wind will sting, but my beard will go.

Despite my cautions not to live too closely by the tenants of who you are, we must hold true some things. We must have a North Star, there must be some thing to guide your steps...

Even if a vegetarian can have their bacon, and an intelligent person enjoy Zach Snyder films...

There must still be some pillar of their self that is unwavering.

Maybe yours is never drinking out of the milk carton or wearing orange on thursdays.

Mine is that on February 6th my beard will go. I tell you this with as much conviction that William Ernest Henley summoned when he wrote "Invictus". I tell you this with the same resolve Martin Luthor used to nail the thesis to the door. I tell you this with the same resonance of, "You Shall Not Pass!"

If, when February 6th comes, I do not have a conventional means in which to shave myself, I will find an unconventional one.

I will hold a wolverine seven inches away from my face and sing the theme song from Sesame Street if I have to.

I will miss you, Beard. That stark cold sensation of the pillow after shaving is no compensation for looking like someone who fights bears on oil rigs.

I plan to die with you, Beard. Which is why I only get into sword fights in the dead of winter. That and the way blood looks on snow.

But soon, Beard, you must go.

Oh, Beard.