Friday, June 13, 2008
The Politics of Facial Hair
My excessively handsome BF is going through what I like to call his "Jim Morrison: American Prayer" phase. First the hair grew long, which I love, especially since it turns into perfect, soft sausage curls, like Gainsborough's Blue Boy, the Fauntleroy craze in the late 1800s, or those Orthodox ringlets they wear down in the Fairfax and Wilshire areas. Next came The Beard. I'm not a fan of any sort of stylized facial hair. Soul patches, Fu Manchus, moustaches, Van Dykes and the lot really give me an impression that the dude sportin' is having serious self-image issues, or that he's going to slip a Ketamine in my latte. Judgemental, superficial and unfair? Perhaps. Probably, but moustaches are the province of 70s porn stars, and unless you plan on buying a Chevy Van and trolling local school yards, I suggest it's not a prudent choice of veneer. The Van Dyke can sometimes be maybe sorta ok. (Who made me arbiter of facial hair style? No one. Now, shut up and do what you're told.)
But an honest beard? Despite the tendency of some of those upper lip hairs to wiggle up into a girl's nose when in full embrace, and the abrasive growing out stage, I can get behind a full beard. A bit of grooming is fine, but I really have a hard time being attracted to a man who looks like he overly primps. Dressing well is nice and good hygiene essential, but too sleek, too hyper-obsessively clean, is not sexy to me.
So I'm good with BF expressing his inner Grizzly Adams. Too bad his mother screamed when he landed back home in Texas this week. It seems The Beard may be coming off soon.