I, like so many appreciators of facial hair, warmth, protection from the elements, and general awesomeness, grew a beard for No Shave November this year.
Because I’m a little OCD, I decided to take a picture on November 3… and then took one every single day after that.
Because I’m also a little ADD, I decided to have some fun with the photos, adding venue and outfit changes, a little head-movement, and the shave, haircut, and ridiculous mustache that followed.
Finally, because I’m a little D&D, I wrote a poem in iambic tetrameter about a man growing a bead for warmth and beauty but eventually becoming overwhelmed by his beard and cutting it off.
The Rise & Fall of Bastion’s Beard
To Beard or Not to Beard
by Sebastion Crider
As Winter waxes, warmth doth wane
And strands the man left standing plane,
Frozen fingers left to linger,
Barred from touch by wooly mane.
Oh Beard, thine strands of warming lace,
As vine o’er brick, thou now encase
Mine frozen cast within thine mass;
Within thine sheltering embrace
As I watch mine own reflection,
More a search than mere inspection,
As more of me is hid by thee;
By thine quiet insurrection
Oh Beard, thou growest from mine face,
As black on colors, thou erase.
Mine form and class, thine bulk surpass.
They vanish, now, without a trace.
Mine facade, now hidden in thee,
Is masked by masculinity.
What once was mine becoming thine
Lest I reclaim identity.
So I lift my cold blade to slash
And hack thine form with ev’ry lash.
With beard, begin, but end with skin–
Paus’d but once for a sweet mustache.