Portrait of the author as a medieval man
Photo: On Platsh / Erik Mclean
One day I found with horror that I had no beard. Not that I had owned a beard before this fateful day; I had never noticed it. I am not a rabbi, but at least not believers. So shouldn’t I wear a beard? What else should people think of me! Maybe I don’t know the commandments? On the other hand: if I knew her, I would know that almost nothing is from the beard in it.
In any case, I understood that I was an extremely shaved person and began to deal with the advantages of the development. The beard proved to be helpful everywhere. He grants access to the Council of Elders, makes you wise, magicians, prophets, patriarchs. At the same time, there is conviction that men are versed with a beard, and maybe rightly. They may even be the better lovers, at least according to their own assessment.
So I let myself grow a beard and felt how every single hair sprouts. I was happy; I walked around confidently, walked around, the chin involuntarily kept higher than usual, let the beard go ahead to me. Perhaps it was my mistake in it: the beard became cocky and not only more and more voluminous, but also more and more important. He claimed space, time, care. I thought he was stroking it, not because I liked it, but because he asked for it. I didn’t know anymore whether I shook him laughing or he. Many people first noticed the beard – and, if at all, only later as an appendage to be tolerated. He was the one who greeted, conquered, while I stepped down behind his imposance.
Ezzes von was
Magnus Terhorst
Alexander Estis, a freelance Jew without a permanent residence, writes so much Schmonzes in this column that the pejes grow.
Little by little I was able to control the proliferation of the beard less and less. I went to the barber. He fought bravely, a Hercules, with the sword of his little blade, bravely in the tragedy of failure, because two new ones drove out for each separated hair, equally the headers of the Hydra. He scrubbed, struggled, plucked and climbed, effilated, epilated, indeed even – and surrendered.
In order to weaken the beard, I stopped caring for it, almost exclusively died of carbohydrates and hardened my heart against him. But the lack of care just made him more shaky, so that stubble and small nests formed; He willingly waived the protein, and his heart simply didn’t care. The more I tried to get it, the more he consumed on my reserves. I grew away increasingly, lost strength and drive.
One morning I decided to fortify myself by walking a forest and at the same time to ventilate which more radical steps to take in the struggle with my adversary. But before I could take a reasonable idea, my beard got caught in the undergrowth, I fell, bumped my head and fainted.
When I came up with awareness, I felt miraculously recovered. I noticed an unusual felt-fiber-fiber plant, a moss lichen or maybe a dead hairy animal. I tended to be and dawned at me that it could be nothing other than my beard: he had found new breeding ground and blamed roots.
Since then, the beard has grown without me. I am glad that our ominous connection has come to a happy ending, both for me and for him. Sometimes I come by to comb him. Birds have now found their place in his nests, and the stubble are berbeared to berry -like fruits, but I don’t know anything about consumability: Maybe they are poisonous or, since they descend from a beard, not even kosher. I’m not a believer – but what should people think of me?