The Van Dyke Chronicles

Recently (OK, it was Halloween), I decided to shave off my goatee. Or Van Dyke. Or chin beard, or whatever you want to call it.

Which prompted me to attempt an experiment. One involving facial hair and digital photos, and online self-involvement; a.k.a., a blog.

Day Zero

Face feels smooth, looks weird. I have not seen my chin since 2003. It looks about how I remember it. Looking in the mirror and not recognizing oneself is very unheimlich, but it only lasts a few minutes. Now I just look like me without any facial hair.

Day Three

A shadow of a beard has made its presence known, and shaving around its edges is now something that can be aided with the eyes, and not just the intuition. The beard is still Todd Palin-thin.

Day Five

This appears to be where critical mass is reached. I generally keep my beard very short, so when I trim every few days, this is about how long it ends up being. Maybe a little bit longer. At least I can feel comfortable that it only takes five days to grow out my beard.

Day Twelve

The goatee is now thick enough to qualify me to play the evil version of myself in an alternate-universe episode of Star Trek. Watch your back, Kirk.

Day Thirty-eight

Eat your heart out, Scott Ian.

Day Fifty-seven

I have decided to shape my moustache into a handlebar and allow my full beard to grow out. This has made eating far more difficult than before; pieces of food are continually getting stuck in my face-bush. I am not certain I was able to comb out all the meatloaf from dinner three days ago. When outdoors, my facial hair has begun to attract interest from birds flying nearby. I am beginning to grow concerned.

Day Eighty-five

The situation has grown out of control. Small animals are now burrowing nests on my face. I was dangerously wounded by a raccoon bite when I attempted to approach the beard with a pair of scissors. My neck aches from holding up the extra weight. I fear that soon the voles and swallows will asphyxiate me in my sleep, leaving nothing behind but a dessicated corpse and a ZZ Top-like beard.


Success. I can now return to a life of stroking my beard pensively while pondering the ineffable; a.k.a., graduate school.