Day 108: My Goatee

My goatee is my friend. My pal. My boy. I’m down with my goat. I give my goat props. Mad props. My goat comes correct each and every day.

My goatee is my cape. My utility belt. My six shooter. My muscle. My right-hand man. My Renfield. My Watson. My Robin.

I’ve been sporting a goat for pretty near 20 years. I’ve shaved it exactly twice that I can remember, and both times I immediately regretted it. I mean I really, really regretted it. Instantly regretted it.

On the positive side, shaving the goat de-ages me by about two decades. On the negative side, shaving the goat makes my peanut-shaped head look even smaller and weirder and odder than it already does, and although I’ve long abandoned any hopes of being recognized for my killer movie star looks, I don’t want to be known as Mr. Peanut Head, either.

Both times I shaved the goat, I felt instantly weak. I felt naked and bare, as if someone broke into my closet, stole all my clothes, and left me to fend for myself in a cruel, cold world without anything to protect by delicate skin. My goatee is my armor. It shields me from damage and harm. My goat is the rubber ball that bounces your negativity back to you.

My goatee is also gray as hell. It started going that way well before I ever approached 40, and it’s only gotten worse. In winter, my face camouflages well with a snow bank. In fact, my face permanently looks as if someone glued a snowball that won’t melt on my chin. When taking photos, it’s wise to turn the flash off because my goat will reflect the light. I could take a razor to all that whiteness and turn back the clock, but that would expose my chin for the weakling I perceive it to be without facial hair, and I’m not having that.

My goat is a faithful companion. I don’t recognize myself without it. I don’t like the way I appear without it. I’ve grown accustomed to having no hair on my head. I’ve grown accustomed to how I look wearing glasses and not wearing glasses. I’ve grown accustomed to how I look in dress clothes, casual clothes, and athletic clothes. I’ve never in the last two decades grown accustomed to how I look without the goat.

I’ve accepted that my wife doesn’t feel the same about my dear friend as I do. He has a tendency to be a little gruff and abrasive. My daughters felt the same when they were young and gave the big daddy a hug or kiss. I could do them a solid and make life on their faces and chins more bearable, but I can’t bring myself to do so. At least not in the foreseeable future.

Are there days when the goat and I don’t get along or see eye to eye? Sure. Some mornings when I look into the mirror, I can see glimpses of the little boy or young man who used to reside somewhere behind that lip and chin full of hair. I miss that guy. I miss that face. But I’m not him anymore. I am of the goat. I am about the goat.

I wore a goat before it was trendy, and I kept wearing it when every monkey and his brother decided to do the same. I don’t begrudge any man his goat, but mine is special. It’s better than yours.

Some men choose the full beard, the hippie beard, the Amish beard, the Fu Man Chu, the handlebar, the 5 O’clock shadow, the pencil mustache, the soul patch, or the chinstrap. I choose the goat, and it serves me well.