Kelly Kreth on Kissing a Hairy Face.
With the resurgence of the ‘stache–never has it been so popular since Reynolds and Selleck–and popularity of the hipster beard, I’m finding myself (maybe you are too) in some hairy kissing situations lately. Some find the bushel (of hair) leading to a peck. Others find it a kissing deterrent.
Years ago, in college, I had a classmate named Brian. Brian was an English major too and was a talented writer. As with many talented writers he was also out of his mind. I tended to attract those sorts, back then–and even now–and we became friends. He had a crush on me, but I always had a boyfriend through those years so there was no chance for him. He also seemed too volatile for me and while it was fun visiting the zoo at times and even reaching in and trying to feed the beast, I did not want to live there.
He once called me in the middle of the night and read from American Psycho, which had just come out, saying it was the best book he has ever read. He almost sounded aroused by it. He read me parts that discussed how Patrick Bateman stapled a chick’s tongue to the floor and then sniffed her piss-soaked panties. Pretty scary stuff to hear at 3am! Brian found it exhilarating.
Brian made me wary, but I was still somewhat fascinated. I haven’t changed that much it would seem. Once in the elevator at the end of the school year–I ate most of my lunches in the college library amongst the literature—we stood awkwardly next to each other, and I could read his thoughts. He wanted to kiss me.
I knew all I had to do was turn around and smile and maybe take a step towards him, but I stood steadfastly with my back turned to him, staring at the elevator doors down from the third floor to the lobby. Mr. Super Loud PunkRocker had choked, losing his chance to kiss me.
It was the last time I saw him until recently. He quit college and we didn’t stay in touch.
Many years later, out of the blue he called me during Thanksgiving break. I was scared shitless when I heard his voice, because the American Psycho incident was still in my mind. My fear was quelled a bit when he told me he had moved to San Diego to pursue music. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.
He had dropped out of college because he always wanted to be in a band—writing its songs and being the lead singer. So in ’97 he apparently was on his way.
We lost touch again and then with the blessing and curse that is FaceBook, a few months ago we got in touch. His avatar showed a demonic-looking Brian with what appeared to be blood, smeared all over his face. We sent each other a few FB messages back and forth and one night, late, he called me.
He was supposed to go touring to NY, and we planned to see each other after these 15 years to catch up, but his drummer quit and the tour was postponed.
I got a text a few weeks later saying he was in NJ visiting his parents, asking if we could get together for coffee. Although his parents live about two hours outside of NYC, his father had a dentist appointment just a few blocks from my house, so Brian came up and hung with me and my dog for a few hours while waiting.
The tension was still there. We had spoken over the years about that day in the elevator. On our recent visit, he relayed how it was a huge regret of his that he hasn’t at least tried to kiss me and that even 15 years later it was nagging at him. So I knew he’d want to try this time, and I wondered if I would let him or if he’d choke once again.
Brian was much bigger than I remembered him, with a shaved head and a full tattoo sleeve. He still has a great smile and kind eyes. We fell into a natural rhythm of conversation as if no time has passed at all. He is still incredibly bright and talented, and I felt sad that he has wasted potential. But then again I feel sadder that I do too. He, on the other hand, is not sad at all. He loves living by the seat of his pants and treats everyday that is filled with music, as a gift. I, on the other hand, bemoan that I’m still alive and even though I have a warm bed that is my own instead of endlessly couch surfing like Brian, I am less alive than he is for sure.
The one thing that was shocking is he had grown this crazy hipster beard. It is coarse and long and ZZ-top-esque. He commented on it as it is an entity onto itself that he is not quite sure how it found its way to his face. He doesn’t particularly like it, but acts as if he can’t seem to figure out how to get rid of it, as if it is a relative that has taken residence upon his face who he is too squeamish to ask to leave.
We spent over an hour talking about how I might let him kiss me, but for the beard. It stood as t his literal barrier between us. He said he hasn’t kissed anyone since he has had it and wouldn’t really know how. He commented on how he found it funny how a long 15 years later, he was once again cockblocking himself, this time with a bush-like facial entity.
Our last tension-filled few minutes sitting close to each other on the couch, inching closer, knowing his father would call for him to come get him any moment, ticked by like hours. Finally I leaned in and said maybe….maybe if I could make friends with the beard, I’d let him kiss me. I held my breath and then stuck my nose in and sniffed. I have a strong sense of smell and a good smell can make me do anything; a bad one will ruin something for life for me.
Lucky for him the beard smelled good—sort of like a pine forest. I nuzzled in and we figured out how to kiss each other, even with the cumbersome beard trying its hardest to prevent us from doing so.
As our lips met his phone rang.
A few more kisses and he had to head out the door, but as he did, he said it was worth waiting the 15 years to finally get to kiss me.
He also mentioned that he had just reread American Psycho for the tenth time…