The Aftermath
In the middle of last week's blizzard, it grew.
While the early-March winds blasted fallen snow across roadways, it
gained a foothold.
When schools and businesses closed their doors early or didn't open
at all, it made its presence known.
In the light of day and the dark of night, as families huddled
within the warm safety of homes stocked with storm-surviving
supplies, it developed into a formidable presence.
Even when the snowfall diminished and the winds subsided, it
continued to claim territory.
That's how my blizzard beard came to be.
I'm not one who does facial hair.
For a number of years, I wore a mustache, until one morning it
seemed inevitable for my razor to reach above and beyond my top lip,
and the neatly-trimmed growth was gone.
In the mid-1970's when long hair was the fashion, long sideburns
were also part of the look.
But not a beard.
Hair grows thickly enough on the sides of my face and on my chin,
but there is simply something about the look which seems foreign and
unfamiliar.
To be sure, nine years ago I was forced into letting that facial
growth take over when I spent 17 days in the Boundary Water
Wilderness of northern
No one packs a razor for a two-week camping trip. But soon after my
return to civilization, that remnant of the experience was a distant
memory.
Being shut-in during the lifestyle-slowing storm last week was the
opportunity to break routine.
Once the decision was made to cancel school classes, a four-day
impromptu vacation was on the horizon.
No sense in dressing up. No sense in participating in those daily
experiences which become the norm on a workday.
Business dress clothes gave way to jeans and sweat shirts. Typical
morning routines were replaced with quick-hygiene activities: brush
teeth, washing my face rather than shower, wetting hair and combing
it instead of shampooing and blow-drying. Showers came later, after
hours of moving snow.
And no shaving. By Saturday, there was a good stubble. By Sunday,
family was suggesting I let it grow.
My blizzard beard made a few public appearances. It got mixed
reviews.
By Wednesday, the outside temperatures had tamed most snowdrifts in
the area. Streams of liquid escaped from mounds of ice.
On Thursday morning my razor cut through the blizzard beard,
clearing a path like a snowplow moving down the highway.
It felt good. It felt clean. And life was back to normal.