I went to Williamsburg for the first time on Saturday night. Everyone is very excited about this place. It is so cool. So hip. The place to be. The place to live. The place to drink and be merry.
Yet, the only conclusion I could gather as to why everyone is so enthralled by this place is that everyone, and I mean everyone, has a beard.
From my conclusion, I happened to also conclude that Williamsburg itself must have a beard.
And like the gods before it, human worshippers have come to emulate the wonderful wonder that has captured their attention and the awe-factor that controls their decision making abilities. Hence, all the bearded faces in Brooklyn.
Now, you all might be wondering whether all faces in WB are covered with hair. And of course the answer is no. Most of the women take it upon themselves to only marry, date, or lust a bearded man to show tribute to WB. Though, there must be some rogue, feminist women out there who need not a man to prove their love and don a scruff/peach effect to warrant not only attention but respect. Which we do, scruffy/peachy women. We most certainly do.
Let us count and ultimately judge harshly the men I came in contact with that happen to be sporting a bearded extravaganza.
There was of course the ‘Swedish’ man (I say Swedish only because of his stripedy shirt, which is why we called him Stripedy all night. Not to his face mind you, behind his back, like the ladies we are) that roughly opened the bathroom door while my friend was merely trying to make her way out. He had no want of business but the business that he already had. His is what we call in the biz a teet. He hasn’t really committed to the beard but may or may not shave in the next couple days, giving the illusion that it just so happens he can grow this somewhat underbrush of hair on his facial region. He’s teetering back and forth. He is a teet.
This man was not alone in his beard strutting. His lover companion was sporting the illusive but always revered Red Beard. All you can do in a situation with a Red Beard is to look from afar and admire. Which we did, ever so cunningly. Well, we believe we were cunning…..he did keep looking at us…..but that might be because we kept pelting him with ice cubes so he would turn around so we could look at his beard. But I bet he didn’t notice. Yeah, he didn’t notice.
There was a lull for a moment where we believed that we had seen all the beards we would see that night but we should not have counted our chickens so early my friends. Oh no. There was more to come. We moved from our seats near the door to an opening at the bar itself so that we could further entice men to buy us drinks. (by the way, if you didn’t think that was what we were doing in the first place you don’t know me well enough and should stop reading immediately. Go out by the book, I Am The Awesomest written by me about me, read it, and come back and continue reading). Moving on.
That is when Bar Minimum Man happened upon us. Now BMM had hidden himself amongst a PFM, Pale-Face-Mob. This mob was a strange phenomenon to me. All were men but one lady, who seemed to belong to none of them in particular. Perhaps they were all after her? Perhaps they were all with her? Oh yes, I’m throwing it out there that perhaps this PFM was actually an OJWTH, Orgy-Just-Waiting-To-Happen. But who knows? Not I, certainly.
Anywho, Bar Minimum Man came stumblingly up to the bar and proceeded to ask the bartender what else? What the bar minimum was and began to order drinks. That’s when my friend spotted it. His beard. It was full and on his face. She’s a quick one, she is. She then began to inquire about his facial hair and from her questioning something miraculous happened. He let us feel it. Oh yes. He claimed to be the bearer of the softest beard in WB. And by all accounts he was telling the truth. It was a glorious moment and one I will not quickly forget. However, the best was yet to come. A present left behind BMM was that though he ordered so many drinks, his friends were ready to go to another bar and he left them behind. This leads me to believe that if you touch a beard, you get free shots of Jameson and a pint. It’s the only logical conclusion one could make.
Now I am not claiming to be the expert on beards here or anything but I was truly shocked by the next phase of my story. There was a man at the bar that shockety shocked us with his beard, in that, we didn’t notice it for quite some time. That’s right my fellow chickedies. The Bartender himself had a beard! Here’s how I remember it: we conversed with Bartender. We took shots with Bartender. We bought drinks from Bartender. And it wasn’t until late into the night when we began to note how intoxicated we were, that we grasped that Bartender was not only a beard bearer himself but a secret beard bearer! The way I see it is somehow Bartender (Cavin was his name, by the way, though we called him Gavin all night until he emphasized it by making a “C” out of his hand for our sauced eyes and belted as loud as he could for our equally as sauced ears to realize he was making a “C” sound and shape, not a “G” sound and shape…I’m over 21, I promise)
had played the game superbly and only brought out his bearded magnificence when it suited his hand. He had let us become infatuated by all the surrounding beards but as they all dissipated into the background and/or street to stumble home, he had saved his poker face, quite literally, for the tenth inning (please note the mix of poker/baseball metaphors here, you’re welcome).
After gloating his beard in front of us and making our eyes and ears water, out of nowhere, he abruptly began to ignore us. It wasn’t until later that I realized he was being out bearded by the gentleman behind me. He saw his opponent, turned tail and ran. As I turned ever so slightly to my left, I saw it: the fluffiest and wizened beard of them all. Three inches long and gray as a dark sky on a rainy day, The Regular had entered the playing field.
Who would have guessed he would be my downward spiral for the night? The Regular, mind you, was an older gentleman, fifty five to sixty I’d say, that seemed to weirdly be hitting on me? I amused myself by openly telling him I had Boyfriend and though he was completely surprised, ouch old guy, he was not deterred. It was as if he knew I couldn’t turn around and begin talking to my friends, who seemed to have thrown me over board into no man’s land with the oldest beard around, so he started telling me his life story, starting from when he was a child. A CHILD!?!?!?!?
But I took it. I listened intently and sympathized with his childhood issues and never wandered into my own head……and wondered what could be living in his beard…A menacing hobbit?....A juggler? Would he know? Would he care?.....and Being the only Girlfriend out of us, I felt I needed to take this one not only for my friends but for all the single ladies there that night.
I caught a couple mouthed “thank you’s” as I was leaving the bar, which made me feel like I had just volunteered at a slut home and all the sluts were thanking me for so they could have a chance at bat with all the youthful beards around. I felt like a momma hen mixed with a little bit of pimp with a touch of goddess. You’re welcome sluts of WB, you’re welcome.
And so it goes lovely peeps. Though I’m not entirely sure what I learned from this night except that I am still infatuated with beards and I guess now I know where to find them. That could be a witty yet educational lesson I may have learned. But I still think it’s always important to remember that if you follow your hearts you will find what you need and most likely it's a beard.
all the example you need:
