The November I Hope Not To Remember

I’m a little over half way through my first No-Shave November, and things couldn’t be going much worse.

I spend every waking hour itching my bristly face, I can’t put an ounce of dressing on my salad unless I’m willing to wear sticky, orange dots of Dorothy Lynch on my chin for the next few hours, and eye contact is no longer possible during conversations as the other person can’t help but avert their focus to the thin, greasy hairs that make up what is technically my mustache.

I HATE MY BEARD. It’s patchy, it’s thin, it’s discolored. It makes my face smell like a pair of stale, wool socks.

And what’s worse is that it’s not even a real beard. The majority of the hairs sprout up either at or below my jaw line. That means most of it is on my neck. That makes it a neck beard…a neard. Nobody wants a neard.

No-Shave November has been such a letdown.

I used to idolize my friends who could participate in this annual celebration of testosterone and poor hygiene. I would dream of a thicket of dark, curly fur, enveloping an entire half of my face. It would be able to hold my pens and pencils. I would eat nachos, and people would see the glorious remnants of cheese and Tostitos on my face. I would see my family at Thanksgiving and they would say, “There’s something different about you this year, Jesse, but I just can’t quite figure it out.” And I would respond, “It’s my beard. I am a man. Now excuse me while I go drink stout beers.”

But alas, my boyhood dreams have failed me, and the effects of hitting puberty late are still haunting me to this day.

I suppose I’m being partially environmentally friendly by not using the small amounts of water that accompany a typical shaving session. And I am okay with saving the extra five bucks that I may have spent on some razors or a can of shaving cream. But these small victories get trounced by all the negative experiences that have accompanied me in my rookie season of No-Shave November.

However, I’ve decided that I’m going to stick it out. I fear that the shame of quitting now, half way through the battle, would be much worse than the lack of facial comfort that I will continue to experience for the next several days.

No-Shave November has not lived up to the hype. This month has sucked. And I’m going to be more cautious in the coming years before I ever decide to partake in this annual celebration of the unkempt.