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The Art of Growing a Beard
The Art of Growing a Beard
The Art of Growing a Beard
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The Art of Growing a Beard

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"Although this was originally written in the 70's, one can argue it's relevant today now more than ever. For both the beardless and bearded it's everything you could ask for when asking the question 'Should I grow a beard?'" — Die On Set
The right beard, worn well, is a mark of virility, distinction, dash, and self-confidence. This witty and practical guide extols the pleasures and benefits of a well-covered chin, including heightened attention from women and increased social and professional respect.
A great gift for the bearded as well as anyone interested in adopting the fashionable trend, this volume offers a gallery of styles to help the wearer find the one best suited to his face and personality. Experienced counsel on selecting, growing, and caring for beards includes shaving techniques—accompanied by advice for getting through the awkward growing-in phase with dignity—and tips on everything from grooming to eating and kissing.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 4, 2014
ISBN9780486797250
The Art of Growing a Beard

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The Art of Growing a Beard - Marvin Grosswirth

Talmud

INTRODUCTION

One evening not long ago, while I was engrossed in my nocturnal ablutions, I felt a mounting sense of annoyance with my beard, which for some inexplicable reason refused to allow itself to be evenly trimmed. Finally, in a fit of pique, I savagely applied shears and blade, and a few seconds later I was smooth-jawed. (Mercifully, some divine intervention stayed my hand when it came to the mustache.) My wife, who was at the time a bride of less than one year, refused to allow me to come to bed. Ultimately, her innate sense of compassion prevailed, and she relented.

One could hardly blame her. Ordinary prudence dictates that any attractive young woman of good sense will avoid sleeping with a man who is, for all practical purposes, a total stranger. And stranger I was. For one thing, I looked quite different: my wife had never seen me beardless. For another, intermixed with the luxuriant tufts of hair clogging the drain were sizable chunks of my personality. The pain was indescribable. I had not realized how very much a part of me my beard had become and I yearned for some immediate means of restoring it to its original state, a condition which, through great patience, I was ultimately able to accomplish. I vowed never again to remove my beard unless compelled to do so by some unknown and as yet unimaginable calamity.

Nor was the pain entirely psychological. I had forgotten how much it hurts to drag a strip of honed metal across one’s face. I used to jest that it took me eight minutes to shave: three for the removal of stubble and another five to stanch the flow of blood. To my dismay, the bad joke came back to haunt me with agonizing reality.

My beard is about seven years old, its birth roughly coinciding with the demise of my first marriage. There is considerable significance in pairing the two events, as you shall soon

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