The Sideburns' Last Stand

On a fine morning of April, that valiant warrior of a month which enlists even the heavenly showers in its mission to "pierce the droughts of March to the root," I awoke to the reassuringly baritone voice of NPR's Robert Siegel blaring on my radio clock. Only a British accent can lend a voice as much credibility as being three octaves lower than normal does. This blog of male readers will understand the rejuvenating effect such a voice must have on a mind groggy after staying up way too late playing Halo doing homework.

Peering into the bathroom mirror, I realized that I had a problem. My sideburns were downright bushy.

Sideburns should never be bushy. You can wear jeans for two weeks straight and get away with it (I have), you can carefully wipe your fingers on your socks without serious consequences (or so my uncle tells me), and you can even shave all your hair off like a wannabe swimmer and not look totally dumb. But whatever your blunders in the way of hygiene or appearance, don't ever for the love of Elvis Presley mess up on your sideburns! Sideburns make the man. They are manly. In fact, despite what some people think, most women don't even have them. Grow your sideburns too long, and you'll look like a failed Taliban who wants a beard but can't quite manage. Cut them off completely and you'll look—shorn. Like a suited scrivener who's too meek to venture into the bold land of real whiskers. (Apologies to certain individuals out there who are at this moment angrily protesting.) And blond, unshaven peach-fuzz burns are the worst of all.

Now, there was a good reason my sideburns were a little unkempt. My barber down the street is not the kind of person I like to visit more than I need to. Not that he's a Sweeney Todd or anything. That would be cool. A creepy, exciting, mysterious monster of a barber would make a haircut worth the thirty dollars that haircuts cost in our degenerate age. But this barber is just a run-of-the-mill, sleepy chatterbox whose head is shaved to about a half inch of graying growth, and who is fond of garrulously and affably rambling about any subject from sports to politics to how he pirates the most awesome stuff on the internet and has a mega CD collection that he downloaded for free onto his quad-core computer with a terabyte hard drive. I'm not jealous; in fact I am quite happy for him. I hope his computer has a long and satisfying life and that he thoroughly enjoys it. And then I hope it blows up his house.

Just kidding. Did I mention that he doesn't have sideburns?

I, on the other hand, do have sideburns. I have stronger, healthier, sideburns than most people. My virile hair does not grow "very slowly"; in fact, it sprouts up faster than the kids in that family your mother hasn't seen in five years. ("My, how little Jonny has grown! I just can't get over it! *pinch embarrassed sixteen-year-old's cheek*) When I looked in the mirror, my sideburns were of moderate length, but way too thick and positively rebarbative.

Being a resourceful fellow, I knew exactly what to do. Out of my shelf came an electric shaver. Out from the shaver popped the trimming attachment. And I set to work shaving off just enough hair to thin out my burns and polish my already dashing appearance. But alas! My hand is not so steady as I thought it was.

Ten minutes later, I stood in the mirror staring at my vanished glory. To repair the slip, I had been compelled to remove every last whisker from my jaws and cheeks.

Of course, it will grow back soon. But after a few days, I am finding that a smooth, clean image really suits me. In fact, I'm not sure why anyone would want those scruffy strips of bristle running down his face.