Isn't it interesting... religious behavior is so close to being crazy that we can't tell them apart

I've had two religious experiences over the last few days. As in “brushes with religion”, not actual religious experiences. I only have those at live gigs.

The first was a few days back, as I was getting on the bus. Further back, at the middle door, what appeared to be an old imam got on. He had a great white beard, a shaved upper lip, a knitted white cap and a walker. I walked by him as he was settling in, and as I passed him be looked up. Nodded slowly. Sagely. Like a mentor to his student. Like Obi-Wan to Luke. I nodded back. Slowly. Sat down. Smiled.

So the guy thought I was Muslim. If I shaved my upper lip too, which I've done before, I would probably get a very interesting experience the next time I try to go to the US. When I went the last two times I made sure to braid my beard, to avoid being mistaken for a Taliban. Plastic gloves and lubricant ain't my idea of a good time.

The second one was on the train this morning. Picture this. Me sitting on the train, wearing a black Neurosis tee and baggy gray cargo pants, reading Cormac McCarthy's “Blood Meridian”, headphones on, probably leaking some Neurosis noise (yes, I'm currently seriously in love with that band. Again). A woman sits down next to me. Sits still for a while, maybe one station, and I feel her looking at me.

Then she taps my shoulder, I remove my headphones and she says, and I'm so not kidding, “Have you accepted Jesus as your savior?”. What. The. Hell.

Religion and I aren't friends. We're barely on speaking terms. And this is why. Nut cases on the train that want to “save me”.

My response then? “Eh...no”. Eloquent, eh? It was 07:15 in the morning. Give me a break. My brain wasn't up to warp speed yet. Then she goes off on this rant how Satan is in music, in books, in movies. I guess the word “Blood” on the cover was a dead giveaway. Me and Cormac, worshiping the Great Old Ones together. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!!

There were two things I could do.
1. Explode and rant back at the misguided fool. I was tired from a weekend of uneven sleep patterns, and cranky. A recipe for disaster, but oh so rewarding.
2. Get up and walk away.

Wisely, I chose number 2. I am The Bigger Man. When she got off at the Central Station she looked over at me with a look like “I pity you that you cannot see the way to avoid burning in hell, you poor man”. Again, the temptation was great to back up and go with item number 1 above. Instead, I took a few deep breaths and went back to the book. Don't let the fuckers get you down.

As above, so below

The summer hair do is now in place. I went to the barber on Thursday too, and trimmed the beard. Its approaching Gustav Vasaian proportions. Excellent.

There is always a period when a man with a beard shaves it off. This period does not last

I am rarely outbearded. Today, on the bus, I was outbearded not by one man, nay. Not even by two men. I was outbearded by six men. On one bus. Outstanding.

So I should be suffering from inferiority complex right now. Or is that beard envy? But no. I have neither. The reason is simple. There were thirteen Sikh men on the bus today. Of them, only six outbearded me. Six out of thirteen, of a group of people whose religion states they must never cut hair nor beard. Hooray for me!

There are two types of people that go around beardless; boys and women, and I am neither

I thought I might try to write something clever and profound (or at least something I would find so), but I'm too tired, so I'll leave you with this.

Quite shocking that I like that site, right?

Thanks, Eva, for the link.

Even a really close shave won’t make me a Medium

Right-oh. This is inspired by both missTV (she has “Song of the Week” every Sunday) and ege (who has recurring themes at least twice a week).

Welcome to Like/Don’t like Saturdays.

beardonaut likes:

It goes without saying that I like beards. I like it on me, I like them on others, I take pictures of my beard with other beards. I am a beardonaut (for those of you that don’t get it, that’s –naut, like astro, but with a beard instead of space) suffering from beardomania.

So on Thursday I went to a barber for the first time ever. Not a hairdresser, mind you, but a barber. There’s not an abundance of them here. Extensive Googling yielded three. I settled on Barber & Books.

Now this is what a barbershop should look like.

The place is, quite literally, a paradise for beard nerds. As a friend commented: “Too bad I don’t have a beard anymore, cause it seems like you could go crazy with all sorts of shaving paraphernalia.” So true, and all that paraphernalia is available at Barber & Books.

I spent about 40 minutes having my beard trimmed. It went from “massive goatee with bushy sideburnsy things” to “full beard” under the barber’s skillful scissors, combs and whatnot. The result was beyond my expectations. I’m going back in a few weeks to get a proper shave, to clean up the lines of my beard.

A straight razor is just about the scariest thing I know (Lament Configuration puzzle boxes with moving parts being number one, of course), and I would never consider using one myself, but I really look forward to such a close shave. I’ve only had one before, and in comparison with what I’m getting this time, the first time has to be considered a quickie. I expect to leave fully satisfied and with a smile plastered all over my face.

So. I like Barber & Books.

beardonaut doesn’t like:

I had some time to kill before my appointment, so I took the time to look around for some clothes. I tend to buy a lot of my clothes at skate shops and such, since I really like skateboard shoes, baggy pants, hoodies etc (if I could choose I would always wear my baggy denim shorts, my Painfield hoodie, and one of maybe four pairs of skate shoes).

The problem is that most people that skate (I don’t – I have the balance of twelve different sized and shaped boxes stacked) are two feet tall and weigh about as much as a piece of paper. I walked into two different places and went “Ooh! Aah!” at maybe six different pieces of clothing, which is highly unusual since I’m very picky. All of them turned out to be available only in sizes Small or Medium.

Not really sure how to sum up what I don’t like about that in a short sentence. You get the point.

There is great truth in Alphonse Karr's remark that modern men are ugly because they do not wear their beards

I’ve been known to terrify small children. Not on purpose, no no, I’m a really nice guy, but the mere sight of me has driven children to tears on occasion. My theories have included that my general attitude towards the miniature people shines through, or that it’s The Beard.

Today it was The Beard.

I was walking up towards the line at the grocery store when a man and his son came walking from the left, to get in line in front of me. No problem there, I was several meters away and crawling along at my usual pace. Which is to say most of the store could have moved in, in front of me. And it’s a big frackin’ store.

So the guy takes his place in line in front of me, while his son stops and just stares at me. You know the kind of look. People in horror movies faced with a massive man wearing a hockey mask and wielding a bloody machete get that look. Then the kid turns and runs.

The father notices and chases after him, looking back over his shoulder at me and says:
“It’s your beard.”

OK. So people in grocery stores faced with a massive man wearing a bloody…I mean impressive beard get that look. Obviously.

He comes back with the little Oompa-Loompa cradled in his arms and says:
“He’s afraid of priests.”

Let me stop for a moment here and inform y’all that we’re not talking about Bostonian priests. No black vestments and priest collar for me. Oh no. They were Muslims, so it was all about The Beard.

Yes. It is bigger than my head.

The father spent a few minutes trying to get his son to realize I wasn’t a priest. We shook hands (helped a little), I smiled (didn’t help) and I told the Loompa my name (maybe that helped).

In the end, the kid stood staring at me while his father paid for their groceries. Then they went on their way. I see a psychologist’s couch in that kid’s future. And a shaved chin.