An epic song came out in 2010, sung by Ke$ha. The tune is catchy and it has my kids hopping around our van while we drive down two lane country roads in Wisconsin. But that doesn't make the song. Sure, it has a bunch of Gaga-esque randomness (even a squid for a split nanosecond that would make the single worthy of a "thumbs up" from P.Z. Myers) with a playful message about how love can mess with your head, rendering you idiotic while drunk on the elevated dopamine effect - a truism for a culture obsessed by the "meaning" of love. That's all well and good.
What makes the song is the last four words, "I love your beard." I have no idea why that works for me, but I enjoy random creativity out of left field, which is very much the reason why I skip past the country stations on my local radio dial.
Maybe I love the phrase because I have scruff on my face that I really like.
When I was a young boy, I was a late bloomer. My brothers, at the age of 13, sprouted mustaches and had to begin shaving. A year and a half later, I passed the age of 13 and watched my perfectly smooth upper lip turn more pinkish as the days went by. I hit 14. Then 15. At 15, I had one hair on my lip and I left it. It was the seed that would begin my efflorescence.
Someone told me that if I shaved once, my hair would grow back faster, thicker, and stronger. So I shaved - four times a day. I went to college and met a gentleman with a face that needed shaving five minutes after he touched a razor to it. He was a fellow of European descent and yet looked downright Arabic. I noticed he sipped coffee (black, mind you) all day, every day. I began to drink coffee. Lots of it. Not your watered down horse pee you find in a church mega-pot. Thick black coffee that ran like molasses. If I could rub my teeth together after a sip without a squeak, I knew the coffee was too weak. And so my hair grew.
My grooming habits became, well, habitual. I would shave my face. Then, three days later, my scruff was absolutely perfect. The length of the scratchy stuff was downright sexy. Then, after six days, my neck would begin to itch and I would start scratching. On the seventh day, I would scratch my neck red, get sick of it, shave, and start the process all over again. To this day, I still run this schedule, occasionally working in a goatee or a week-and-a-half beard.
Then I got married.
I met her on the third day of my shaving cycle. She swooned. Then I kissed her. She laughed and said I tickled her nose and that I scratched her. I stepped back and she swooned again. I wanted to kiss her, so I shaved and went back for a kiss. She said I looked too young.
One day, I might try kissing her again.
What makes the song is the last four words, "I love your beard." I have no idea why that works for me, but I enjoy random creativity out of left field, which is very much the reason why I skip past the country stations on my local radio dial.
Maybe I love the phrase because I have scruff on my face that I really like.
When I was a young boy, I was a late bloomer. My brothers, at the age of 13, sprouted mustaches and had to begin shaving. A year and a half later, I passed the age of 13 and watched my perfectly smooth upper lip turn more pinkish as the days went by. I hit 14. Then 15. At 15, I had one hair on my lip and I left it. It was the seed that would begin my efflorescence.
Someone told me that if I shaved once, my hair would grow back faster, thicker, and stronger. So I shaved - four times a day. I went to college and met a gentleman with a face that needed shaving five minutes after he touched a razor to it. He was a fellow of European descent and yet looked downright Arabic. I noticed he sipped coffee (black, mind you) all day, every day. I began to drink coffee. Lots of it. Not your watered down horse pee you find in a church mega-pot. Thick black coffee that ran like molasses. If I could rub my teeth together after a sip without a squeak, I knew the coffee was too weak. And so my hair grew.
My grooming habits became, well, habitual. I would shave my face. Then, three days later, my scruff was absolutely perfect. The length of the scratchy stuff was downright sexy. Then, after six days, my neck would begin to itch and I would start scratching. On the seventh day, I would scratch my neck red, get sick of it, shave, and start the process all over again. To this day, I still run this schedule, occasionally working in a goatee or a week-and-a-half beard.
Then I got married.
I met her on the third day of my shaving cycle. She swooned. Then I kissed her. She laughed and said I tickled her nose and that I scratched her. I stepped back and she swooned again. I wanted to kiss her, so I shaved and went back for a kiss. She said I looked too young.
One day, I might try kissing her again.
