A case for No-Shave November

The beard is a cultural phenomenon. Never has anything been claimed by so many different sub-cultures—athletes claim it with the playoff beard, hipsters claim it for douche-bag’s sake, porn stars take it for it’s general appeal, I guess. The beard is a polarizing figure, women love it, women hate it, but it is bigger than looks. It’s a statement.
Enter November—the month known best for it’s ever-American qualities: Over-eating, football, and frivolous shopping. Despite November’s monumental contributions to the American spirit, it is still willing to offer the American people something more, something different, something great—no shave November.
The premise of no shave November is as simple as it sounds—you don’t shave for the entirety of November. Though this sounds simple, and somewhat stupid, I promise you it is not. This is one of the most culturally relevant holidays in existence today, mostly because it hasn’t caught enough fire to be ripped to shreds by capitalism—it’s pure.
But this isn’t a column condemning capitalism—I like capitalism—it is a column intended to bring light to one of the least heralded holidays of the year. Because really, the ultimate purpose of a holiday is to (a) bring light to a prominent issue (b) bring together mass groups of people to rally around a common cause. And no shave November succeeds in both regards.
(A) Being that it highlights the issue that is facial hair. The majority of NSN’s participants are college students, and for many of these young men, November is their chance to finally learn how poorly they grow facial hair. In society today growing a beard in high school is somewhat frowned up. People see these kids as creepy, and childish. Enter college, the one place where you can do whatever you want and label it as something greater than it is, an experiment. This is the time to learn, the time for people to finally know if they can actually grow decent facial hair.
(B) Being that if you participate in NSN you are suddenly apart of a community. The sudden hordes of destitute facial hair appearing on college campuses around America all have something in common—the individuals behind the shabby beards can rally around the fact that they can or cannot grow facial hair. It’s a uniting culture. People, who would never have had a common ground otherwise, are suddenly relatable.

It’s beautiful, really—when something so simple as a non-action can help to create a community. It can surely be put off and dismissed as something childish, and stupid, but why would you want to? It falls into the same category as sporting events and most forms of entertainment. People rally around these things, and come together to form bonds that go for deeper than whatever it was that got them there.
There will always be naysayers no matter what the cause, but they should almost always be ignored—unless the naysayers are making light of negative issues regarding the original issue.
But no shave November has zero negative issues. It is not violent, it does not hinder intellectual discussion, nor does it belittle anyone. It is a holiday in the purest sense of the word. And honestly, that almost brings a tear to my eye.

Nostalgia moves through the present

Miserably, I sit in the waiting terminal of the Mason City bus depot. I’ve been sitting here idly for the past five hours. See—just yesterday I was heading back down to Lincoln Nebraska, from my fall break spent home in Minneapolis Minnesota.

It was my first time going home since I began my freshman year of college. The experience itself was bizarre. Not so much because anything strange happened during, but because of all the feelings brought upon by my post-high school-arrival.

This all began after I finally decided to make fall break my first visit back home. I drove up with my bff Ed to meet up with my other bff Ben who goes to school at the University of Minnesota-Twin Cities. We arrived in Minneapolis a little after midnight, and rather than going home for the night we decided to have some fun with Ben and some other people, it was a Friday night after all.

So after drunkenly discussing husker football with some random guys from Ben’s frat I made the long awaited drive home—I wasn’t driving…my friend Ian was…drunk driving is BAD.

So the drive seemed rather short, as most things do after four in the morning. However, I didn’t let it stifle me from taking in all the old landmarks that used to own my life.

Coming home is one of the strangest experiences I can struggle to define, especially coming back after a significant change in your life—College. It’s comforting in a way. Momentarily having everything back to the way it used to be. High school. You’ve changed, but everything is exactly the same, but different. Cheapened almost. It’s impossible to describe.

Just being there strikes up a sense of hollowness. I find this stems from the fact that we as human beings tend to romanticize about the past. Which is great at the time, however, when presented with all the things you held so dearly the sense of magnificence suddenly goes away. It’s depressing, somewhat. But really what else is there? There are two constant stages in life: the past, and the present. The past makes it easier to accept the present, and the present always greatens the past.

Fortunately, Ian and I made it to my house just in time to pass out in my basement—something not terribly unfamiliar.

Waking up home is a trip. Suddenly everything is exactly the same. You don’t feel like you’ve ever left. It’s more scary than comforting, really.

Anyway, my weekend continued. I tried my best to hit up all of the traditional places—favorite book store, favorite restaurant, etc—and still try and divulge in the comforts of being in a house. I was also lucky enough to tune into ABC and watch the Huskers get destroyed by Texas Tech—awesome.

The weekend came and went, and I was looking forward to getting back to campus. Tuesday morning Ed and Jordan—a friend from UNL who was joining us for the drive down to campus—came to my house to pick me up. I had survived home, something so tame I almost had to wear a seatbelt.

Driving home was going fine until we hit my least favorite state—Iowa. I have always hated Iowa; it has never done me good, or right, whatever. Unless you consider the 2008 caucus, I do appreciate Iowa for that.

We had just passed through Manly Forest City—no joke, this is a town in Iowa—when the engine of Ed’s poor Chevy Blazer made a wretched sound and suddenly the car was smoking like crazy and we had to pull over. Ed’s car had fallen victim to Iowa; coincidentally his car broke down less than five miles from where Buddy Holly tragically descended from the sky—Clear Lake Iowa.

After pulling over along highway thirty-five, we noticed that seemingly every fluid was quickly draining from the engine. Luckily the kind folk of triple A sent someone over to tow us within twenty minutes. Which then lead to us waiting in the lobby of a Chevrolet dealership. No more than fifteen minutes after we arrived, a mechanic had entered with a piece of the engine in his hand. The engine was totaled, and as luck would have it so was the car. So suddenly stranded in the place where music died the three of us proceeded to investigate every single possible way to get to Lincoln. And honestly, there aren’t all that many ways to get to Lincoln.

After a couple hours of frantic phone calls we found the only way for us to get home—the bus. Which didn’t sound terrible until we found out that the next bus to Lincoln didn’t leave until four in the afternoon the next day. So slowly accepting our fate, the three of us decided it was time we got some food and found a hotel to stay the night. Fortunately we found a Perkin’s right down the street that was conveniently located directly next to a cheap motel.

As we slowly killed time at Perkin’s our waitress came to take our order, and as what can only be labeled as a good omen our waitress’ name was Whisky. And oh did she look the part. Painted on eyebrows, pigtails, and the body of an offensive lineman, though she handled our food with care. She was a great waitress, really.

And if Clear Lake hadn’t provided us with enough material, our motel room topped it off. The sheets from the bed contained eyeliner, hair, and my favorite, blood—the perfect recipe for a good night. And it was. Many an obscure character crawled through that hotel. Who’s lobby made it painfully easy to see that the number one business in Clear Lake Iowa was getting people out of Clear Lake Iowa.

It’s a comical trend found in Iowa. Seemingly everything is designed in hopes that people won’t be there long. Which, clumsily serves as a metaphor for the past/present. Iowa is the apex of time and human emotion, really.

Though Iowa has it’s permanent residents—as do most places—it’s purpose is to help guide people elsewhere—Minnesota, Nebraska…anywhere—and it does a good job in that regard. We all have our Iowa, regardless of where your passing place is; it exists, and always will.

And much like my homecoming, my accidental stay in Iowa consisted of feelings of remorse, fondness, and an undying urge to move on. Because really, who enjoys sitting idle? The people who enjoy sitting idle are those who live in Iowa, not necessarily the state, but the mindset—happy with the present, fearing the future.

And luckily by the grace of Iowa we were able to catch our bus the next day. Which brings me back to sitting in the Mason City bus depot—sitting idly as I wait for my Iowa to end, and fortunately it did.

I hope it’s a long time until I have to face my next Iowa.