I once saw an episode of Dexter's Laboratory in which he grew a synthetic beard to appear more "rugged." With his new rugged appendage, Dexter joined "Action Hank" in a beard duel with some evil flour smugglers. If you're missing the point thus far into my monolgue, fear not - I'm getting there. You see, the creators of the episode may have captured the "ruggedity" of beards, but they managed to completely sidestep the other, darker aspect of facial hair.
The problem with facial hair, at least the week-old variety, is the itch. It is an itch unlike anything I can describe to you. It's not a deep soul-sucking itch like poison ivy or bee stings, nor is it one of those little itches that will go away with a few passes of your fingers. If you don't move, you feel almost OK. But the moment you move your head just a little bit, thousands of prickly little hairs scratch at your tender baby-bum skin. And you itch. Oh how you itch. I have no idea why anyone would actually want to grow a beard, as the process of doing such is sheer torture. You know that all you have to do is go home and shave it off, and the beard-free feeling is like Heaven on Earth. But beards have a purpose, and thus they usually don't get shaven.
This current week-long beard expedition of mine started out as sheer laziness. My facial hair is often a product of above-mentioned motivational deficit. The "benefit" of it is such that I look like an Urban Lumberjack and feel like one of those morose looking kids in Gap commercials. Except as far as I know, I don't dress as stupidly as they do and I don't stand around white rooms looking angry that I'm being paid to look angry.
Apart from laziness, this beard of mine has gained a purpose, and thus cannot be shaven, much as I want to rid myself of the infernal itch. You see, the last time I shaved, the Boston Red Sox lost the second game of their playoff series with the Oakland Athletics. At the time, I gave it no thought, but no sooner had I stopped shaving (read: got lazy) then the Sox began to win. They have won three consecutive nail-biter games since I stopped. Like every good Red Sox fan, I have taken this to heart, knowing deep within my soul that the winning fortunes of my favorite team are inextricably linked with the hair follicles on my rugged face. The Sox play the Yankees tonight, a most hated foe. So you see, it's nearly impossible for me to shave this here Yak's coat the adorns my face. How could I? My own friends would burn me at the stake were I to shave and the Red Sox to lose.
Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy not wasting time shaving. Aside from the fact that I look like some sort of balding Gorilla, the "rugged urban" look isn't so bad either. Aside from the looks I get on the train saying such wonderful things as "man that guy is a lazy non-shaving mofo" or "what a grub," I feel pretty liberated. But don't get me wrong. The itch is driving me insane. My personal sacrifice for the Red Sox brings tears to your eyes, doesn't it? At least, I suppose, it's not like wearing a pear of "lucky Red Sox underwear" since they started winning. That invites, I imagine, a much more infernal itch.