Gray Beards of Aisle 7
I’m not really sure why I never grew a beard before. If I had to guess, I would speculate that it’s because there is real photographic evidence of how terrible I looked with a mustache, back when my hair was brown. Nonetheless, I am pretty much homebound while Angela recovers from her knee replacement surgery, and I decided to give it a whirl. We also just moved into a leased home in the country, and thus, there is a list of honey-dos as long as my paltry beard dreams of ever being. Or any beard. Ever. While it kind of itches, I do rather enjoy rubbing my chin thoughtfully, whilst considering deep and manly thoughts: “What am I doing in the plumbing aisle of the hardware store? Or, “Why didn’t I write a list? Or, “I wonder how long the drive-through line is at McDonald’s now?” I am cognizant of other men around my age, wandering the aisles of the hardware store, likely thinking similar deep thoughts, many stroking their own stubbly beards.
Halfway home, I remember what I went to the hardware store for, as I finish the last of my French fries and flip a quick and manly U-turn. Plumbing fittings… for my deal of the century: a fifty-dollar set of a used washer and dryer. I drove deep into New Hampshire to buy them from a nice lady who told me she had no idea if they worked or not; they were left in a rental she owned. For fifty bucks, what did I have to lose? She helped me load them into the Jeep, and I drove them home, rubbing my beard with pleasure derived from my manly ability to sniff out a bargain. It seemed to grow tangibly longer as I made the two-hour trip to my appliances' new home… and possibly darker, as well.
Angela seemed only patronizingly appreciative as I told her about my bargaining prowess. She was likely still in pain from her recent surgery, I reasoned. Assessing the existing plumbing fixtures and comparing them to those of the thirty-year-old machines I had just wrangled into the mudroom, I made a quick list which included sketches and measurements of the hardware needed for yours truly to become deemed a household hero… a bearded and wise hero… wearing nice clean clothes. And so it began.
There were another five trips to the hardware store, each culminating at the cash register, which now contained over one hundred of my former dollars. The pockets of my filthy jeans contained five well-intentioned lists, most containing childish drawings of pipe fittings, hoses, and other hardware. I had done a preliminary test of the appliances, and the washer’s drain pump was found to be faulty. I had ordered one online and installed it just the previous day. This would be my final trip to the hardware store for this project, I told myself in no uncertain terms, and I must make it count.
As I wandered down the aisles, bedazzled by the smell of tools and the brightly-colored garden section, I noticed many of the same guys that I had seen on my earlier visits were there again: beards slightly longer, the lists in their hands slightly more rumpled, their jeans slightly dirtier. We did our best not to acknowledge our familiarity with one another. After all, maybe we were all working on new and different projects… a man’s work is never done, I’ve heard it said. Or perhaps these were completely different men wandering the aisles today? Lots of guys have dirty jeans and stubbly beards. But their eyes told the story: There was fear just behind the facade of confidence, of beard stroking, of manly bravado. It was the fear I had seen in my car’s mirror in the parking lot. The fear of failure.
I knew what we all knew: this would be our last chance to prove ourselves victorious in the eyes of our wives. We were all frugal Yankees; we all told ourselves and then convinced our spouses of the money we would save by doing it ourselves, money that could then be spent on important things for the family: furniture, perhaps, or food for the children. We each had one more shot at triumph, our avoided eye contact confirmed. Either we succeeded this time, or the next time we’d see each other would be standing in line at the appliance store, saving our places in line for our spouses, who would be off looking at the newest vanities, most likely chatting with each other about what losers they were married to. We would be standing in line with eyes downcast, credit cards in hand. We would pretend not to recognize one another, our egos dismantled and our faces freshly shaven.
But not this day, dear readers! My now two-hundred-dollar washer whirls like the dancing of a young bride, hums the siren song of marital bliss, and makes spotless Levi's. I write this well knowing that I should not take the next opportunity to save money by trying to fix something myself, but that I most surely will. See you guys on aisle 7. If I fail to make eye contact, know it’s nothing personal.
…and all the onlookers would start to ridicule him, saying:
“This man started to build but was not able to finish.” Luke 14:29-30