November 17, 1999

Fall facial hair rubs the wrong way

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
       Facial hair is a sensitive subject around our house this time of year. Mainly because my yearly ritual of growing a goatee irritates my wife's skin, and gets under it a bit.
      Each fall the facial hair chess match begins the same way: I open with the classic five o'clock shadow pawn, she counters with a rook wrinkle of nose and pout of lower lip.
      Thus begins the epic daily struggle: to shave or not to shave.
      Boredom, the Autumnal Equinox, Cro-Magnon genetics; it's hard to say why I start sprouting hair over my lip and around my chin. It does cut 56 seconds off my shaving time, which means I can sleep an extra two minutes since the alarm clock is set 10 minutes fast. Plus, it kind of makes me look like Brad Pitt - minus that whole GQ cover boy thing.
      Speaking of famous follicles, some men have secured a place in history thanks to unforgettable facial hair. Abraham Lincoln couldn't have pulled off the stovepipe hat look without his whiskers. Santa wouldn't seem as jolly and Salvador Dali quite as surreal.
      I also know that if it weren't for facial hair, I would have forgotten Mike Yoder long ago. When your seventh-grade basketball coach tells you to guard number 45 and his mustache, it makes an indelible impression. Especially when all that stands between him and the basket is your Chuck Taylors and a pencil-thin line of peach fuzz.
      I haven't seen Yoder since high school, but I highly suspect his is still a full-time 'stache. In the world of mustaches, beards, mutton chops and Fu Manchus, there are those with 24 hour, 7 days a week timecards and those who are part-timers.
      Myself, I usually punch in a few weeks before deer camp. I might forget to bring out a change of underwear or my 12 gauge, but I never forget to leave my razor at home. I've never returned from the woods with anything resembling venison - or without taking a shower - but my wife still wrinkles her nose. The chess match continues.
      Her look is not unlike that of my mother's decades ago during a phone conversation with my father, who was in Canada on a fishing trip. Having grown up in Jackson Heights, New York, perhaps dad was feeling a bit out of his element in the Canadian bush. He decided to blend in the best he could.
      "Your father is coming home ... and he has a beard," said mom, as if the Elephant Man would be pulling up our driveway in the family's 1976 Buick Electra. A few days later dad came home; clean shaven. It was their first and last checkmate.
      Personally, I've never tried to take it all the way to the beard level. Instead, the goatee usually stays in tact - baring any trimming catastrophe- through the holidays.
      As the weeks with whiskers progress, though, I notice a disturbing decrease kiss ratio. Then one day pawns are sacrificed and knights banished as the mustache falls into the bathroom sink. Less than a month later, the lower lip facial hair takes it on the chin as the rook is routed and the bishop defrocked.
      Left to fend for itself, the Chris Gaines' soul-patch puts up a half-hearted effort until February. The king is dethroned and clean shaven well before Valentine's Day.
      However, things could be different this year. I might pack extra clothes and the shotgun before heading off to deer camp. Around Thanksgiving I could sport a tom turkey-like beard. Or perhaps I'll celebrate the new millennium with a turn-of-the century handlebar mustache.
      Of course, if I find a can of Barbasol in my stocking this Christmas I won't bother reading the gift tag. The king will be too busy lathering up in the throne room.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail at gleiva@gtherald.com.