Curse of the Irish

Long about the 17^th century my Irish ancestors joined a mass immigration to America.  Through the years certain traits, superstitions, and traditions have made their way into the pages of history; but as we see time and again, each person tends to have at least one genetic predisposition that returns when least expected to make them rue their heritage of long ago.            

Now, what are the Irish known for?  Go ahead, we all know the answer – four leaf clovers, drinking, and red hair.  Clovers and drinking have done me no harm, but it is the last of these that is the basis of my grievance.  (And for my redheaded friends, I hold nothing against you.  This is merely a case of the swimmers in my gene pool falling behind on their synchronized routine.)

I have always admired a good beard.  Tragically up to this point in my life I have been robbed of the liberty to stage my own set of whiskers – first by my youth, then by the BYU Honor Code, and finally because of the need to follow a formal agenda in the workplace.  However, a recent change in occupation that now allows me the freedom to work from home presented me with the opportunity to pursue this lifelong dream. 

After convincing my wife that “the longer the hair, the softer the touch,” I was on my way to having my very own Chong face (Cheech & Chong).  This is where things started to go wrong.  The images of a thick, brown beard that I played daily in my mind turned out to be more like the burning bush of Moses.  Rather than Captain Ahab I was ‘Captain Redbeard: the Irish pirate.’  But instead of giving up on the dream, I turned to the first stage of grief – denial.  I told myself, “It’s not too bad.  Besides, the longer it gets, the fuller it will be and whatever redness there is will turn to a thicket of brown.”  I was wrong.  Longer hair only meant a larger canvas to be painted by the Sun’s rays, and the Sun painted it all shades of red – ruby, burgundy, sangria, rose, etc.  My face looked like a prized painting from the Jackson Pollock collection.

I finally came to terms with the inevitability of my future in bearding – natural bearding, that is.  I recalled the facial hair dye commercials I saw back home that featured a Paul Bunyan looking guy who longed for his days of youth.  Now, I am living in Hong Kong and I don’t know if you know this, but aside from the occasional fu Manchu, Asians are generally not blessed with the ability to grow facial hair from anywhere other than their moles.  So do you think facial hair dye is readily available here in the heart of Asia?  Not a chance.  My only option:  hair bleach to fade the color.

Determined to get the beard I had longed for, I chose to disregard all the warnings about the danger of bleach coming in contact with skin, especially the face.  Following two applications and a close encounter with burning my face off, a glance in the mirror revealed that after soaking my beard in bleach for half an hour, the color had only been reduced to a shining strawberry-blonde.

Despite my failings I have found it in me to stay positive.  I am open for suggestions, but as of now it seems I have been struck with the curse of the Irish.