My grandfather was called “Red” by his peers, as was his father. Both had red hair. Though I was spared the color moniker, I bear the ruddy background in the banner that is my beard. No pennant can be displayed more proudly than one worn on the bearers face. Many compliments come with a fully realized covering of whiskers. There is one occasion however, that causes the most attention to my daily appearance, Saint Patrick’s Day. The day we celebrate the lack of serpents on an island on the far side of an ocean by drinking copious amounts of a beverage that most of us won’t admit we don’t like. I can chew on a Guinness about once a year, so I choose to do so on the same day all other cider drinkers prove that they too are men.
I frequent a popular pub on the south side of the big bad city of Birmingham because they carry such a variety of cider that I have yet to sample the same cider twice. So why should I not trust them for my annual Guinness dinner? Because of all the posers that are too proud of their newly acquired License to Drink to do it in a private and reasonable manner, that’s why. There are more plastic green hats than there are whiskers on this beer bingeing night in my otherwise local tavern.
As for me, I am baldish so I wear a riding cap too keep what little hair I have warmish. I also smoke my pipe almost every chance I get, which is another reason I prefer the indoor/outdoor atmosphere of this particular place. The U. S. Navy supplied me with a Pea-coat that just won’t wear out and is always warm enough for our Alabama weather, so I am almost never without it prior to Pollen Season.
And so there I sit perched upon tall chair minding my pint and my pipe and my own damn business when the yuppie yokels see me and seem to think that I am somehow their new mascot. They love my “look!” They want to buy me drinks. They want their picture taken with me. They tell me about their grandfather that used to smoke a pipe. That he used to wear a hat “just like that.” That someone they know (never themselves) was in the navy.
I feel fairly certain that I could get by with only a quick clink or two of my glass if only my full-bloom beard was not so obvious. Rusty pine needles protruding from around my mouth could draw no more attention than my modest facial fur. “Did you grow it just for today?” “How did you get it so thick?” How long have you had it?” “Does it have a name?” This goes on till I depart for lesser known parts.
But this is all my own doing. It’s my fault that I have put myself in this situation. I suppose I must crave the attention, for I know what will happen and yet I go anyway.
In retrospect, I could avoid it all if I would simply shave my beard before St. Patrick’s Day. It helps keep me warm in the winter months, but hopefully the worst of the cold is past us by now. I know that I could really use some sun on my pasty face. And though it’s creating an ever-increasing “Roll Tide” appearance with the white whiskers among the crimson ones, I will do as I do every year and wait until Easter before ridding my being of my bonnie red beard.
David Bowman works as a Night Auditor at a hotel. This allows him to work on other projects both on and off the clock. He is currently stretching his legs in the area of writing and is fleshing out a story for a book. He enjoys seeking out places that remain from at least as far back as the 1920’s and hiking in the woods with his pipe after a night of researching. As for his beard, he allows the many events that he attends to dictate its ever-changing styles. Never a dull moustache.
About Douglas Smythe
