Before we get started today, I’d like to thank you all for your comments. You know. The ones that go:

“What’s that on your face?”

“Spencer Pratt called. Said ‘nice going.'”

“Grizzly Adams called. Didn’t say anything because he couldn’t stop laughing long enough.”

“I didn’t know women could grow beards.”

Ha ha ha! You people are hysterical. Clearly you’re all jealous over the testosterone oozing out of my face. I don’t blame you for this. The beard is the ultimate avatar of manliness. It’s OK to feel threatened.

Ernest Hemingway, Che Guevara, Jim Morrison after the Miami incident.

Yosemite Sam, Sigmund Freud, that guy who hangs around outside Victor News on Park Street.

Does the name Santa ring any bells? Would you walk up to Santa and say something like: “Shaggy called. He wants his four chin hairs back.”

No, you would not. Because Santa would beat you down with a Yule log and go all Christmas Fu on your ass. Because that’s what bearded guys do. They take no guff. They hunt with their bare hands. They sometimes haul the engines out of their cars and put them back just to show the engine who is boss.

Do I have to remind anyone that Chuck Norris has a beard, under which there is yet another fist?

I have always admired the full beard, dating back to junior high when there was that kid who was already haired up at age 13. Ours was a hirsute boy named Craig who started to shave around the same time his voice changed.

Many were the benefits of the adolescent beard. Craig was always in demand because he could sometimes buy beer for the rest of us. Never mind that he showed up at the store on a scooter and carrying a “Dukes of Hazard” backpack. The dude had a beard!

The girls dug Craig because he looked like a full-grown man, even if his mommy still cut the crust off his bread and tucked him in at night.

There is just no questioning the rugged individuality of he who wears a beard. Goatees don’t count in this assessment. Goatees are neat circles of hair that wish they were beards. Anyone can grow a goatee, including infants and girls.

The true beard covers the entire face. You can wear it neat and trim and get mistaken for Kenny Rogers everywhere you go. You can let it grow wild like a Chia Pet. Particularly bold is the ironic beard, one grown long and unruly while the rest of you is neatly maintained.

If you have a beard, you will look wise simply by stroking it. Others will perceive you as ultimately masculine, even if you happen to collect women’s scarves and occasionally weep over movies on the Lifetime Channel. With a beard, you are a Viking, no matter how weenie you are beneath it.

A beard says, “I have been to hunting camp and probably have something dead strapped to the roof of my car.”

So I decided to go for it and go for it with gusto. No boss citing the workplace dress code could stop me. No aggrieved wife whining about the Brillo Pad texture of my inner Viking would make me change my mind.

I threw away the testosterone-sapping razor and said goodbye to my naked face. Within a few days — I’m no Craig, who could grow a full beard while standing in line at the movies — I had respectable growth. Manliness crawled across my face like kudzu. It was glorious, it was feral, it was the very essence of untamed machismo!

It was 40 percent white. White! My beard looked like a baseball glove sprinkled with snow. Like a fistful of salt flung into a pot of pepper. Like something Chuck Norris’ dear old grandma might sport while rocking on her front porch.

So I plucked the Bic out of the trash and squirted foam on my face. Who wants a stupid beard, anyway? A beard is nothing but a playground for lice, when you get right down to it; a mask worn by serial killers and outlaws. Who needs it?

Now, clean-shaven. That’s where it’s at.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can volunteer to be his beard at [email protected].