The University of Idaho Argonaut

This is where things get hairy ...

Twenty days in. I’ve experienced a woefully small amount of beard growth. I’ve got what would be a five o’clock shadow on some men. Also, it’s almost all below the jaw line, creating a frumpy-looking neck beard, or “neard,” if you will.

At least the itchiness has passed for the most part. Thank goodness.

Mason’s beating me, big-time. He’s experienced about twice as much growth as I have, and more even coverage. I’m pretty sure I’m going to lose the bet and get slapped. But there’s no point in backing out now. All I can do is keep on keeping on. Maybe a miracle will happen.

There has been one bright spot, though. Since first expressing my complications with my ability to grow, or not to grow facial hair, I’ve had a few other guys approach me to share their tales of beard-ly inadequacy.

We’ve found common ground in our shortcomings. I’ve become a kind of symbol, a rallying point for the facial-hair challenged. It’s pretty cool, and proof that No Shave November is truly a time that brings people together.

Of course, on the other hand, there are those who laugh and point out that they have a better beard after three days than I do after two weeks. You know who you are.

Some simply tell me outright how bad my patchy scrap of facial hair looks. These include my own family members. My dad laughed at me when he heard about my facial hair shortcomings. He said my beard is barely visible and looks terrible. I’m inclined to agree with him. There’s a weird bald spot on the right side of my neck, and a thick, darker patch of hair sprouting from the mole on my chin. It’s kind of awkward.

I’ve started wondering about what I’m going to do when the month is over. I’m half-inclined to continue into Don’t Shave December, just to see what happens. The other half of me, however, wants to shave clean and put this whole experience behind me. I’m really quite torn.

If there’s one lesson I could say I’ve learned from this experience, it’s the importance of perseverance in the face of insurmountable odds. This sounds a bit melodramatic, but look at it this way: My genetics are against me, my neck is covered in patchy brown fuzz and I have a 90 percent chance of losing a slap bet. The next ten days are not looking up.

I may be going down, but at least I’ll go down swinging. No shave ‘til death.