7. Weird Things in the Beard

A few years before the apocalypse — after noticing how thin my hair had gotten — I made the decision to shave my head. Oh, it was thick enough on the sides and the back, but when it had become possible for my scalp to suffer a sunburn should I neglect to wear a hat? It was like trying to distinguish the difference between going mad and being mad. All my attention then turned to my beard. I kept it full and somewhat long, perhaps descending three inches or so beyond my chin. And while I was perfectly comfortable shaving my head every other day, I had no confidence in myself when it came to trimming my beard. So I still visited my barber about every two months for a pruning.

Clem, my barber, died in the first attack.

Since this madness began, I’ve been able to salvage enough razors and shaving cream to keep my dome a desert. However, I have been unsuccessful in salvaging a barber or a stylist or any professional whom I would trust to shear and shape my beard. Refusing to attempt it myself, I’ve let it go and now it cascades below my chest.

“If you’re not going to cut it,” Betty’s disgust filled our kitchen, “then at least do something with it!”

“Like what?” I grumbled. We had just eaten lunch and I was beating the crumbs from my beard as one does when beating the dust out of a rug.

“Well,” she said, “how about brushing it for a start? You know? Like you used to?”

“I do brush it.”

“When?” she snapped. “Stay there.”

I remained at the kitchen table and sipped my coffee. A few minutes later, Betty returned with a brush, a comb, and handful of hair ties.

“Push out your chair and turn it,” she commanded.

I complied. She set her tools on the table, pushed her fingers into my forehead, and pitched my chin into the air. Slowly but forcefully, she began running the comb through my beard. There were knots — many knots — and they hurt. My eyes began to tear, so I shut them and clenched my teeth.

“Big tough Jack,” my wife snickered, “can’t take it. Cowboy up, motherfucker, and relax.”

“Yes,” I said, “this is very soothing.”

“There’s more gray than brown in this thicket,” Betty said. “I think we should dye it.”

I heard something small and plastic hit the tile floor.

“What was that?” I asked.

“A Lego brick,” my wife answered, “that fell out of your beard.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I laughed. I opened my eyes and looked down at the floor. There was a yellow Lego brick and... “Where did that feather come from? And is that a dead grasshopper?”

“From your beard, Jack,” Betty answered. “They came from your beard.”

She pushed my head back again. The comb was moving easier now. I heard something else hit the floor.

“That was a shotgun shell,” Betty said. “So what do you think? Let’s dye it. We go out salvaging in a couple of days. We’ll go raid the beauty supply store and pick a color to compliment my hair. What’s complimentary to blue?”

“Orange,” I said, “but we’re not dying my beard.”

“Well, you suck,” Betty smirked as she traded the comb for the brush. “What about some charms? Maybe some little skulls? There, that’s better. Softer. Smoother. Okay, let’s braid.”

“Will that make you happy?” I sighed.

Betty straddled my lap and kissed me.

“Fine,” I relented.

As Betty began to divide my beard for the braiding, Mina entered the kitchen. Her tail was down and her ears lacked their normal pit bull perkiness. Even her blue-gray coat seemed less lustrous than normal. Betty lifted herself from my lap and I stood up.

“What’s wrong, girl?” I asked.

“I believe,” Mina whined, “that the guinea pig is dead.”

The new mutt, whom my son had named Marcus, came bounding into the kitchen. He tried to stop, but he slid clear across the tile and head first into a cabinet.

“Rat is dead!” Marcus yelled. “Hi, Dad. Hello, Mom. I am a dog and the rat is dead!”

We all went to the living room. My son was staring into the guinea pig’s cage.

“Liam?” Betty said. “Honey, has the rat passed?”

He turned to face us and shrugged, “I think so. He’s not vibrating or panicking like he normally does. And his eyes are closed.”

“They’re closed?” I chuckled. “Okay, Liam, go get one of the old flour sacks. I’ll grab a shovel.”

“A flour sack?” the rat growled. He jumped up and down inside his cage and thrashed at the pine chips. “A fucking flour sack? You couldn’t find a nice shoe box that you could decoupage? Just gonna throw my ass in a bag and toss me into a hole? Bunch of cunts, the lot of you!”

Liam groaned and rolled his eyes. He and Marcus went upstairs. Mina grumbled to herself, “Insufferable rodent. A nap. Yes, I shall nap. Insufferable rodent. Should toss him in a sack anyway.”

“Bring me carrots!” the guinea pig yelled.

“Nope,” Betty shook her head, “that’s a timeout. Quiet time, one hour.”

I grabbed a blanket from the sofa and tossed it over the cage.

“Hey!” the rat growled. “Hey! I killed the cat and you’re next! That’s right.”

“I ain’t dead!” I heard the cat, but I could not see her.

“Come on,” Betty smiled and grabbed my hand. “Let’s go finish braiding your beard and then we’ll fuck.”