How do all these guys
Stick with beards that are like Brillo pads
But maintain no hair on their heads
And shave the nubs that are there
Down to the scalp.

It’s the incongruence that is intriguing,
A ton of facial hair,
Nothing on top.
Mind you, I don’t care,
I’m just curious of the genetics that are at play.

How could life’s blueprint say,
“No hair here, a bramble bush there,”
It’s nonsensical to me,
But before I’m branded a “hairist,” my hair is white as a ghost,
Which is different than most and has many people asking if I dye it.

Of course not, although, I’ve thought about it,
It’s just hair, though,
Me thinks I think too much about the strands,
The locks of some, the threads of others,
The shallowness of vanity.

My midlife attempt
At a Duck Dynasty beard is ending
Very soon after writing this poem
The long prickly whiskers
Have begun to consume
Too much of my attention
I find myself strumming at the chin
And pulling on the long jaw hairs
I thought of the beard like the canopy
Of an old growth forest
With the occasional mammoth
Reaching farther into the sky than all of the other
Yes, it is time for a shave
Albeit just a trim