Hey, remember a while back when I expounded on my experience of wearing a beard? No? Well, that’s okay, because I’ll just remind you of the salient bit, which is the little poem by George Carlin that I ended the entry with:
Here’s my beard.
Ain’t it wierd?
Don’t be sceered,
It’s just a beard.
Andrew Sullivan, a fellow bearded man, posted another poem today that makes essentially the same point, but a little more elegantly:
Abundant hair hangs over my fierce face
and shoulders, shading me, just like a grove;
but don’t think me unsightly just because
I am completely covered in dense bristles:
unsightly is the tree that has no leaves,
the horse without a mane; birds have their plumage
and sheep are most attractive in their wool,
so facial hair and a full body beard
are really most becoming in a man.
–Ovid, Metamorphoses, Book XIII (trans. Charles Martin)
Go, Ovid!
I like the beard. I’m not sceered.
You are obviously a woman of class and distinction…
Why, yes I am!! 😉
I’m not sceered, I can’t grow a beard. I can grow a patch of red, unlike the brown hair on my head. I think it weird, my patchy red beard. So rather than look like a leprechan, I keep it sheered. The hair on my head though, is full and lush. Rarely does any of it end up on my brush. So I will gloat of my full head of hair and be glad it’s staying off my back, back there. 🙂
Very nice, Cheno… who knew poetry was among your skills?