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"Some Cynical Guy" No. 32: April 1, 2001

Black Tie And Beard Stubble

Where did they come from, these prickly young men with the perpetual four-day growths sprouting from the lower reaches of their celebrated faces? And why are they still with us? Of all the fashions that men have affected since the days of the studiously rumpled ascot, this one strikes me as the most blatantly irritating. 

Eight or ten years ago I used to watch these affectedly unaffected men -- most of them millionaire film stars and sitcom types reeking of early, unmerited privilege -- strutting tuxedo-clad onto award shows with beard shadows that would have made Richard Nixon look like Michael J. Fox by comparison. After seeing too many of these bristly young mugs for my comfort level, I used to retaliate by mumbling at the screen: 'Let it grow or shave it off!' After a while, it became: 'Let it grow or shave it off, JERK!' But the jerks never took the hint. What I expected to be a mere one-night stand on fashion's stage turned, incredibly, into a long-running show on the level of 'Cats.' Finally, at the last Oscar festivities, when both of American moviedom's notable Bens (Stiller and Affleck) sported identical sets of sprouts on their faces, I couldn't hold it in any longer. Your Cynical Guy had to unleash a good rant.

Let me confess that both of the offending Bens seem to be otherwise upright and personable young men. I've seen some of their films, and I've even enjoyed one or two. I still get them confused from time to time (Stiller is the FUNNY one, I have to keep reminding myself), but now they've really gone and done it: they've metamorphosed into interchangeable stubble-boys in black tie, thereby incurring the unwholesome wrath of the Cynical Guy. 

What do I have against stubble? Let me assure you that it's not jealousy based on my own want of facial foliage; I could probably outstubble either of the two Bens within any given 24-hour period, even on a diet of lima beans and green tea. No, what I find so objectionable about the cactus-faced young men has more to do with the nature of celebrityhood and fashion than testosterone levels.

Take me, a typical non-celebrity. Nobody has seen my mug adorning the pages of People magazine or the National Enquirer, and I hope nobody ever will. I don't hang out at trendy eateries. Nobody ever stops me on the street to autograph a printout of my latest column. Given my remoteness from the marbled halls of celebrity, I couldn't sport my stubble without severe consequences. If I were to grow a beard for four days and hang out at the local park, I'd probably be whisked away as a derelict or a potential sex offender. But among the rich and famous who exhibit the same growth, their cultivated stubble carries the undeniable whiff of social status. My frizzy face would get me promptly stamped as a loser and a social menace, while the two stubbly Bens bask in ever-greater adulation -- not to mention remunerative contracts from their agents. Call it one of the perquisites of cultural clout.

If that's not objectionable enough, let's examine the psychological and aesthetic motives behind celebrity beard stubble. On the surface, we're expected to believe that the two Bens (or anyone else who cultivates similar follicular seedlings) arrived on the stage meticulously attired in a tux and bow-tie -- but somehow forgot to shave for the past three days. 'What charmingly casual insouciance!,' the fawning audience gushes. 'What palpable nonsense!,' crows the Cynical Guy. The Stubbly Ones probably use special electric shavers with the whirring blades set precisely at three millimeters, thus producing a controlled stubble that can linger indefinitely. What appears casual and careless to the uncritical observer is actually the product of methodical calculation, perhaps involving focus groups paid with sandwiches to select their favorite celebrity whisker look. 

To me, the very concept of studied carelessness (and controlled beard stubble is a prime example of the art form) smells of insincerity and humbug. It attempts to bamboozle the unsophisticated while offering a knowing wink to the insiders. It strives to drive down both sides of the street at once. The effect of the perpetual four-day growth is to proclaim, 'I'm not some bourgeois sellout, even if I do have a business manager and a live-in Provençal chef stationed at my hillside hacienda. I'm just a funky, downtown kind of guy who happens to enjoy an eight-figure income.'

On one level at least, I have to grant the Stubble Stars a grudging respect. I've grown my beard for several days at a time -- once during my recovery from appendicitis, and frequently during bouts of stay-at-home sniffles or other bodily afflictions. I can tell you that the itch of a four-day growth is a torment akin to wearing woolen Bulgarian underwear. Whatever the obnoxious affectations of the Great Unshaven, I have to admire their fortitude. Only the hardiest souls can endure the Itch day after day -- never shaving it off, never letting it flower into soft and luxuriant whiskerhood. I can only imagine what it feels like for the poor women who have to cozy up to the two Bens and their like; they might as well be rubbing their tender cheeks against a cheese grater. Their faces reddened and shredded, they pay the ultimate price of consorting with chronically stubbled celebrities. On the other hand, maybe it explains why they always seem to emit that ruddy glow in the tabloids: free dermabrasion.

Cynic's Pick of the Week
Surprise! Julia Roberts won the Oscar for her performance in 'Erin Brockovich.' No surprise that she exempted herself from the 45-second speech limit that everyone else adhered to throughout the lowest-rated Oscar telecast of all time. (Maybe they should let the winners ramble next year.)

© 2001 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher. If you'd like this column to appear regularly in  your own site or publication, write to UPBEATmag@aol.com.

"Some Cynical Guy" column archive:
2002
81 -- A Brisk Walk Through the Ruins
80 -- The Fountain of Futility
79 -- Farewell to the Big House
78 -- The Cynical Guy Contemplates Cell Phones
77 -- Rich and Poor in Paradise
76 -- Dead Ducks: A Tale of the Food Chain
75 -- Old Comedians Just Fade Away
74 -- Suburbia Comes to Manayunk
73 -- When Nestlings Won't Leave the Nest
72 -- The Curse of High Standards
71 -- Inside the House of Horrors
70 -- The Post-Yuppie Handbook
69 -- Spring Reflections
68 -- Priestly Perversions
67 -- British Teeth: An Apology
66 -- The Sniffling Snout
65 -- Bullies with Social Skills
64 -- Supermarket Rage
63 -- Is the U.S. Really the Greatest?
62 -- The Holes in Our Armor
61 -- A Breath of Used Air
60 -- The Cynical Guy Has Sex
59 -- Let's Abolish the Seven-Day Week!
2001
58 -- Why Worry About the Future of Books?
57 -- The Friendly Face of Evil
56 -- Why We Live Where We Live
55 -- The Cynical Guy Discovers Talk Radio
54 -- Kite-Flying and Other Crimes
53 -- My Night as a Socialite
52 -- Gardening Is Not for Sissies
51 -- Invaders of the Honeysuckle
50 -- To Be a Cat
49 -- The Upside of Terrorism
48 -- The Vanishing Nerd
47 -- Anger Management for Cynics
46 -- Let's Level the Playing Field for Disadvantaged WASPs
45 -- First Impressions, Lasting Impressions
44 -- Close Encounter with a Go-Getter
43 -- Cheering for a Perennial Loser
42 -- The Cynical Guy Reads the Tabloids
41 -- When Does the Good Part Begin?
40 -- Confessions of an Internet Addict
39 -- The Decline of Punctuation and Civilization
38 -- Oh Baby, What a Nightmare!
37 -- The Cynical Guy Watches 'Xena: Warrior Princess'
36 -- A Night-Stroll into the Void
35 -- In Search of the Elusive Wild Tomato
34 -- Getting in Touch with Your Inner S.O.B.
33 -- The Lure of the Lurid
32 -- Black Tie and Beard Stubble
31 -- In Heaven There Is No Pez
30 -- Did You Make the Forbes Celebrity 100 List?
29 -- Redesigning Mt. Rushmore
28 -- On Listening to Dead Voices
27 -- Selling Your Soul on eBay
26 -- Sympathy for Colonel Klink
25 -- Democratic Celebrities in Exile
24 -- High School Revisited
23 -- A Farewell to Bachelorhood
2000
22 -- Requiem for a Middleweight
21 -- Is There a Gene for Tackiness?
20 -- How the Beautiful People Entertain Themselves
19 -- The Cynical Guy Gets Behind the Wheel
18 -- The Fickle Finger of Fame
17 -- Adventures in Bodybuilding
16 -- Some Don't Like It Hot
15 -- The Cynical Guy Watches Oprah
14 -- Sports Parents: Menace to Society?
13 -- Airfare Is No Fair at All
12 -- There's No Such Thing as 'New and Improved'
11 -- Celtomania!
10 -- The Naked Pate
9 -- Vanishing Act
8 -- Bush vs. Gore: It Could Be Worse
7 -- Who Wants to Be a Survivor?
6 -- Adventures in Heart Attack Prevention
5 -- Where Men Are Men
4 -- Thoughts While Listening to the Car Radio
3 -- History Is HISTORY
2 -- The Great Casino
1 -- Greetings from Your New Cynical Guy



Profile of a Cynic...

Photo of Rick Bayan

Rick Bayan was born and raised in New Brunswick, New Jersey, where he enjoyed an idyllic suburban childhood—the perfect background for a lifetime of cynical disillusionment.  He has held a number of typical jobs for an idealistic liberal arts graduate, including assistant editor of Rubber Age and managing editor of Container News.  At Time-Life Books he was assigned to write about plumbing fixtures.  His work as copy chief for Day-Timers, Inc., won six advertising awards, none of which dampened his cheerfully morose view of business and life.  He has written three books, including Words That Sell and The Cynic's Dictionary, and tons of junk mail.

Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online. 

 

 

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