In Bushman Acres, people could burn their trash in barrels and have horses. The cousins in Bushman Acres could brand cattle, bail hay, and mend barbed-wire fences, but we didn’t—couldn’t—although we tried. We were slickers, through and through.

One Sunday, my family went to visit my Grandpa. We visited Grandpa on Sundays and holidays, and we usually got together for cousins’ birthdays, too. We got together all the time. That was the way the Hancock clan showed love. Josh lived right next door to Grandpa, and when we arrived to visit that day, I could see him from the window of our minivan.

In the driveway of my Grandpa’s yard, just before you got to the carport, was a mammoth, 50 ft. tall, gnarled cottonwood tree.

Josh had constructed a fort high in the tree. As we drove up, he sat in the branches, fiddling with some sort of handlebar connected to a cable. The cable ran down from the tree at an extremely steep angle—87.93 degrees at least—and ended on the top rung of a pull-up bar that my Grandpa had created out of metal plumbing materials.

I think Josh had been waiting for an audience. As we pulled in, he wrapped his hands around the handlebar, and—“whoosh!”—down the zip line he went, supersonically. When he hit the end of the line, he swung up, swiveled back, and dropped three feet to the ground.

“Whoa!” I said.

“That’s crazy!” replied my brother as we got out of the car. My parents walked inside to visit with Grandpa. Paul and I stayed outside. This was awesome.

“You like it?” Josh asked, beaming. I nodded. Paul raised an eyebrow.

You’re probably familiar with the zip line. Climbers use them to move supplies—and people—over rough terrain. Boy Scouts use them to for mild, drug-free, adrenaline rushes. The zip line is a useful and fun invention when used properly. My cousin, Josh, used the zip line to kill unwitting victims.

This is Josh. He was a bright kid—probably the most mechanically gifted of all the Hancock cousins. He was a wunderkind with gadgets, an architect who built forts of epic proportions, and a lethal opponent in cousin-wide games of capture the flag or midnight ghost in the graveyard. Josh could also bite harder than the rest of us, which helped in a fight.

Josh’s genius extended to almost every facet of life. He could leap between branches of two closely-set trees with simian agility. He could climb the rope in Grandpa’s barn before any of the rest of us could spit. And he was the most prolific child inventor since Edison. (Edison, however, never invented a three-story fort made out of scrap lumber. Josh=1, Edison=0.)

Josh was also a thrill-seeker. He’s the kid who would run the horses, even if we were only supposed to gallop. He cocked the BB guns three times when we were supposed to cock them once during gunfights. He was one year younger than me and the kind of person you could trust 100% to do something insane.

If you’re contemplating growing a beard, hold your horses. I’ve warned you, it’s not all sunshine and roses. Children will curiously feel your facial hair only to later yank it and make you cry. (The horror! The horror!) Heretofore loyal family members will shake their heads in disgust at your literal flavor savors. (I could have sworn I ate that already!) The cynical ones might even start buying you eyeliner.

You’ll have ups and downs and severe bouts of FAOYFS (Fire Ants On Your Face Syndrome).

And though there are certain perks to looking like a mountain man, trust me when I say this: none of them satisfies like a nice, clean shave. Not even perpetual homberic accolades.

There’s something about having a beard that makes you part of the club. I don’t know what it’s comparable to—maybe having a kid in a stroller?—but a beard gives you a certain status with other scruffians. People with weak stubble compliment you constantly. Women sometimes congratulate each other on their dresses, shoes, etc., in passing. But guys? They rarely grunt at each other, much less give praise. Grow a beard, though, and you’ll receive perpetual hombreric accolades. (I just invented this word. It’s an adjective that means “coming from men”.)

There’s a point at which the beard becomes socially awkward, however. It becomes so scraggly that people can’t help but wonder at your washed-up-ed-ness.

For example, my in-laws frequently apologize for my appearance when we’re with company. My boss does this, too, when introducing me to prospective students at our school. Before there can be any questions as to my demeanor, they’ll all say, “Sam’s in a movie right now. That’s why his face looks like this.” Awesome. Now, if my boss were at an accounting firm, I might understand the apology, but I teach at an art school. I should get paid to look like this! (On second thought, maybe that’s why they keep me on.) Even students talk about my beard like it’s an oddity. Go figure. I don’t do drugs or wear eyeliner, but a long beard is anathema.

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Read the next installment–>The Beard: Part 6

Let’s discuss some other difficulties. When you drink from a fountain, you get drops on your beard that you can’t feel, but that others can see. You converse with someone, and after several minutes, you put your hand on your mouth and realize you’ve had droplets of water on your face the whole time you’ve been talking. (Why don’t they tell you?!)

Remember that guy you used to walk past every morning? The scraggly-looking guy who you either said “hi” to just so he knew you weren’t scared of him, or who you avoided by crossing to the other side of the road? That guy? Well, now that guy crosses the street when he passes you.

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Read the next installment–>The Beard: Part 5

A quick doodle from my sketchbook.

I’m not sure why you’d need a nest if your eggs hang from branches, but this bird has a nest just the same.

That’s right. BEDHEAD ON YOUR FACE.

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Read the next installment–>The Beard: Part 4

I always thought the Yoda training sequence from The Empire Strikes Back was awesome.

Also, there will be more beard story soon.