My Critical Mass

So, like, I woke up the other day with this large critical mass on my face and I'm not quite sure what to do about it.

I am getting a lot of advice about it, none, mind you, from medical professionals. Virtually all recommend immediate removal of said mass.....a mass massectomy. "Use a razor," said a friend, "and do it fast." Another acquaintance was even slightly more direct. "Get that thing off your face.....immediately!" was her sagacious, considered advice. The head of my umpiring association thought I was a street person when I saw him at a training last Sunday. (Hey, he gave me a buck.) But once he recognized me, he cautioned me that my mask wasn't going to fit anymore. And I might scare the kids. Other reactions have been less restrained.

My wife, though, is being quite diplomatic. But the fact that she hasn't come near me since this thing appeared on my face is, I am afraid, starting to influence my opinion about the mass' future. The fact that she tried to shoot me with a silver bullet has also served to reinforce the message, even through my thick skull.

(Good thing she missed)

To others, my critical mass is a great source of amusement. My staff at work is collecting names that our customers or suppliers call me. The Smith Brothers cough drop guys, ZZ Top, Santa Claus or Rasputin are sort of played and show little imagination. But as the mass has grown in dimension, more creative names have been bandied about: Trotsky and Frederick Douglas being my two current favorites. Frederick Douglas!? He was cool, even though I am afraid the similarities between us end at unruly facial hair. There was also 'Some Call Me Tim' from the Holy Grail movie, the dude in the Lord of the Rings and R. Crumb's Mr. Natural. Sweet!

The other day I walked into the Walnut Creek Yacht Club and my good friend Ellen yelled across the dining room "Dostoevsky is in the house!"

That shows good beard knowledge.

I've also been called Marx (Karl not Groucho), Solzhenitsin and Robert E. Lee.

And my sister sent me a beard limerick by Edward Lear involving bird nests.

Yeah, yeah. Cute. Like the time she bought me a pair of the largest, ugliest, most gaudy earrings she could find at Woolworth and sent me a single one in the mail to celebrate my getting my ear pierced.

She's subtle like that.

Slowly, because I am not as quick on the uptake as I used to be, I am getting the impression that maybe, just maybe, having a critical mass on my face doesn't look that good and my friends are just trying to break it to me gently. They say, subtlety,that my mass appears ill behaved and unruly; like my face has staged a rebellion and run off to hide in a cave in the mountains. (Yeah, I've gotten both Castro- the current non-smoking really, really old one- and Bin Laden references, so don't even try- and Mao couldn't even grow a beard)

I suppose I should be flattered that people are talking about it all. I mean no one usually mentions my appearance at all other to say I look tired, old and depressed. Now they go out of their way to tell me I look really tired, really old and really depressed.....and really very hairy. And that I should shave. Now.

And, most of all, they ask why, as in "Why did you let that thing take over your face like an alien starfish?"

No reason, really.

It just sort of moved in when I wasn't looking and has gradually insinuated itself into my life.

Having a critical mass on your face isn't much different than not, really. I sure don't waste a lot of time shaving in the morning, that's for sure. But that's certainly not the reason I tolerate it. It hasn't given me enough extra time to hit the rowing machine or walk the dogs. Nor, clearly, is vanity the motivation. I don't look 'better' with it. It doesn't hide a turkey neck, sagging jowls or scar from a knife fight. It's the same old face....only with a giant gray thing attached to it. I used to think my beard (back when it was black) made me look a little more intelligent. Now it just makes me look insane.

OK, maybe even tomorrow, it will be time to serve the eviction notice. Order must be restored and my critical mass, at least partially, removed.

Seems sort of bittersweet. Like a roommate you really, really hated but will miss once he's gone.