It’s no secret that I have a slight obsession with men’s facial hair. In November I wrote a whole post on the moustache and why I think it is ultimate symbol of strength, integrity and courage. You can see proof here. I took a Freudian stance and said that it’s because my Dad has always had facial hair. I still stand by that.
But the beard… the beard is different. It’s less of a statement and more of a way of life, really. To some, it says “I’m lazy and too cheap to buy razor blades,” to others: “I am a lumberjack!” and still, to others: “I am one bad ass Mother Fucker.”
You see, I find beards send a different message than the moustache. The moustache, screaming out for attention, says “I am a real man, I will do real man things and I will never neglect to look like a real man.” It’s like Old Spice, on your face. You obviously have to take care of it. Therefore, it is more of an aesthetically pleasing feature than a sign of any sort of personality.
The beard, however, says something different. It is not something that constantly needs attention. It is not something that constantly looks good. And it’s not something that says anything about courage or strength or integrity. What it does say is I don’t give a fuck. And as any girl with an unhealthy obsession with bad boys knows… this is freaking hot.
Welcome to playoff season.
It’s not for a good cause. It’s not going to turn you into a professional fundraiser and it’s not going to make your mom proud of you. The only thing it does is trap Buffalo sauce, piss your girlfriend off and proove you’re Canadian as fuck. Bravo. Bra-freaking-vo. Slow clap, even. Way to take a stand. Way to let your boss know that your love of the game is more important than your client relationships. Way to save an extra $20 on razors and spend it on cheap pitchers at your local dive bar. Way to put yourself through that god awful moment of having to listen to that girl you’re seeing about how it’s irritating her sensitive skin. Slow clap. You officially don’t give a rats ass.
Of course, the playoff beard comes with responsibility too. You’ll be expected to be able to answer any sort of hockey question without delay, whenever, wherever. You’ll be expected to have the perfect ‘pump-up playlist’ on your iPod and to know what this means without having to clarify. You’ll have enough money to always have beer in the fridge, enough career freedom to get every single game off (home or away) and enough of a background in all sorts of digital television systems that there is never an issue turning the game on. Also, you hold the sole responsibility of being ‘that guy’. And if you don’t know who ‘that guy’ is, just shave already, who are you kidding?
Ah, Playoffs. You’re a breath of fresh hair. I mean air.
xo & yw