Have you ever wondered what goes into the routine of a perfectionist beardsman? The painstakingly spent time refining the carefully trimmed and well-groomed locks of a luxurious beard, bringing us to a vision of grandeur.
We look into a life of opulence, where beard care is taken to the extremes and to its only logical conclusion. Pure and utter embodiment of the apex of a Beardo. The following transcript of one such routine has been documented. We give you, The American Beardo.
An Impeccable Regimen
I live on Thompson street on the eleventh floor in SoHo, Manhattan. My name is Patrick Beardman. I am a twenty-seven year old commodities trader, my firm specializes in trading timber.
I believe in taking care of myself with a balanced beard routine and rigorous exercise regimen. I’ve developed a comprehensive plan that I practice each and every morning. No exceptions. After I wake, the first order of business is to apply my first of many beard products to my face.
My oak adorned bathroom mirror cabinet is left slightly ajar, while I take out my standard beard oil. My fingers grasp the top cap of a 2oz Original Oil. I set the cap down before proceeding to let out exactly three equally rounded drops. The cap goes back on. There is no alcohol in my oil. Because alcohol dries out your beard, and makes you look old.
After evenly applying my oils, I let them sit there before doing an Astavakrasana. I can do one thousand now. If my beard is feeling a little itchy, I’ll head to the shower. My previous oils, I wash off, as I am only beginning.
In the shower, I’ll apply an exfoliating Beard Shampoo. I briefly smell the remnants of an essential Saponified oil dripping through the follicles and very pores of my beard. A Jojoba Rosemary Extract falls through the air as my newly scented smell takes over the room.
Staring out into the bathroom mirror, my eyes flash with an almost lifelike quality to them. Don’t forget the rest of your body, I think to myself. An all natural hydrating formula adorns the rest of my Graeco-Roman crafted physique. A Promethean creation, that Zeus might find envy in.
Any semblance of an inconsequential odor have been blasted away. The new smell seeks to impress, not to overwhelm the senses.
I inch closer to the climactic conclusion of a well thought out and carefully calculated routine. My sandalwood soaked second round of Beard oil permeates back through my carefully dried beard. Teeth from a pine comb make their way through each individual hair. Following this my boar bristles detangle any hair out of order.
The uniformity of my beard now resembles that of a botanical garden. My senses go back to the fresh earthen spring, after a newly sprouted head of Kale has grown. The thought subsides. After dipping my hands into a newly opened can of beard balm, I begin the application process through each hair.
Right when I reach my mustache, is when a cold shiver shoots through my spine. I drop the balm and sporadically wash my hands. A stray hair is sticking out of my mustache. On closer inspection I realize it is a few millimeters out of order. It’s dealt with swiftly, so that the grand finale may commence.
A Cunning Finish
My mustache is curled appropriately and the sheen I’ve become so accustomed to, has made its daily appearance. I’ll pop a few growth pills to ensure complete success for my beard. My closet is filled with 67 different colored flannels. From my selection, I pick out a red and black one. It suitably fits me well and is one of my favorites.
You see, there is an idea of a Patrick Beardman, a concept of the quintessential bearded man. There is some kind of entity to the beard, an apparition of personhood. Though I can hide my perfectly crafted jawline, and you can even shake my hand and feel as if you understand my bearded lifestyle; your presumption of what it is will never be realized. I am simply more beard than man.