Some time ago, I came across a reference to a pamphlet that purported to rank poets by the weight of their beard.

While I would not subscribe to that particular taxonomy, I will confess that I have been a member of the clan of bearded poets for fifteen years – more or less the entirety of my adult life. In truth, my beard is something of an object of pride for me.

Typically, I lean towards the Jean Reno/Clint Eastwood as the “Man with No Name” style of stubbly beard. Close cropped, but a little rough around the edges. But every so often, I decide to go off the reservation.

After seeing some pictures of Allen Ginsberg in the local paper (promoting a staged reading of Howl), I decided to grow myself the sort of monstrosity that Ginsberg rocked from the sixties on out.

Like the Beat poet, my hair tends to be curly, so growing it long is a not a quick process. And aesthetically,  I am not sure what I think about the enormous white patch on my chin. When my beard if short, the white and gray hairs blend seamlessly with the red-blonde-brown stubble. Longer, the white hairs stand out like a foamy white waterfall (how’s that for a poetic metaphor for ya! I know – both corny and unenlightening).

I find myself torn between wanting to continue the process through to the end and just wanting to take this whole thing back down the heavy stubble. In some ways though, it feels like the situation has been taken out of my hands. Mainly because, from experience, when it gets this long and thick, you need an industrial strength trimmer, not the little toy sitting in medicine cabinet. No, I probably need a professional for this. And I’m not due for a haircut for at least another few weeks (and just going to get one’s beard done seems like a waste – particularly in the absence a good, cheap barber shop that will do it right – and I don’t feel like dropping $20 to get my beard done).

If I were still in Pennsville, New Jersey, I could go back to that little barber shop on Broadway. The woman there charged as little as $5 and did the whole thing right – shaved my neck and upper cheeks with a straight razor to shape the face hair, as well as the back of your neck. Cut your hair and would even take care of your eyebrows and the most extravagant hairs growing out of your ear. It was an elegantly and quintessentially masculine ritual that ever man should experience.

Here in Washington, my favorite place is in the basement of the Rayburn House Office Building, but now that I don’t work in the Capitol any more, it’s difficult to find time to go there. Downtown DC has some excellent places inside some of the office buildings, but the prices can be a little high. When I’m in Dunedin, the fine folks at McGuire’s Barber Shop on Main Street are my establishment of choice.

So for now, in the absence of tasty alternatives, I will continue to work on my “Ginsberg.”