I’m not good with the chronological memory thing, but sometime around 1990 I grew a goatee. And with the exception of one hazy week or two in the early 90s I have it ever since.
Until about 1:30 this morning. Part of having summer vacation is an almost moon-tidal pull toward going to sleep later and later. I’m a week into this year’s model, and I’m already staying up until 2:30. Maybe it’s the 2.5 hour naps.
Anyway, early this morning, while a really nice dead of night breeze sprung up amid the South Valley quiet, I suddenly grabbed a now very dull razor and went to work.
It is the end of an era.
I don’t follow fashion trends, but I’m guessing that if I grew a goatee circa 1990, there’s a good chance that goatees are considered no longer stylish. That is, if they ever were. The reasons to start growing my “goat” seventeen years ago aren’t particularly interesting (a scar thing, a preternatural inability to grow a full beard reaching any level of symmetry, an ex-girl friend), but for some weird reason I’m finding this new clean shaven feel and look very meaningful.
Meaningful in some aging, uncovering scars, unashamed to open myself to the world guy way that simply goes to show I am very egocentric and think my actions and appearance have deeper meanings than simply making my face smoother. Or my weak chin far more noticeable.
Needless to say, there are no pictures accompanying this blog post. I’m not sure if I will be leaving the house for the next two weeks.
I had this increasingly gray chin hair for the entirety of my life in Albuquerque. It predates Nirvana’s Nevermind record and the Clinton Presidency. It had about as many consecutive days as Cal Ripken’s streak.
If you think about it, it’s just like that last scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey where the surviving astronaut wakes up in that totally white bed and white room and some old guy knocks over a cereal bowl. Or whatever the hell happened before we saw the fetus pictures and the 3 plus hours of Kubrick were over. The end of my goatee is almost exactly like that. We, all of humanity, are definitely beginning a new age.
P.S.: The solipsistic nature of this blog posting is in honor of “Brangelina”, “Amercian Idol” and all other faux news stories that serve to take our minds off all the important, usually awful, news out there. Now back to your regularly scheduled and unfortunate spew of death, grief, sorrow and murder. Or deeper analysis of how Angelina and Brad chose the name for their baby. Your choice.