She's holding Big Bird hostage!

My roommate, Jennifer, is taking me to the Sesame Street Christmas party next week, but only on one condition: that I shave my very ugly beard before we go. It's a demand that seems a tad excessive, and I stomped around the room a whole lot when she first made it. I hated what she'd said. I hated being at her mercy.

At first I tried to reason with her. I asked her why the beard must go. I thought perhaps I could pounce on a flaw of logic and save it, but I was wrong. She answered simply and irrefutably, "Because it bugs me."

Confounded and angry, I stormed out of her room without a word, veins popping out of my forehead, steam spraying from my ears. And then I ran into my bedroom and threw myself onto the mattress and cried and fell asleep.

I woke up two days later with tears crystallized on my cheeks and flakes of drool caked around the corners of my mouth. I stunk of sweat and bad breath, and my clothing bore deep wrinkles from my slumber. I took a shower and brushed my teeth and got dressed and sat down at my desk to think about what she'd said. I studied my beard carefully in my reflection in the window. I didn't mind what I saw; in fact, I rather liked it. I'd always thought of myself as a clean-cut kid, and I was sick of that thought because it seemed too plain and too common. With my beard, for the first time in my life I could see an engaging irony in the layers that defined the appearance of my face.

But Jennifer didn't agree, and the fact my beard was two days bushier only strengthened her resolve. "Shave it!" she said upon coming home from work that evening, "Or else!" And with her finger she made a cutting motion across her neck, which, come to think of it, didn't make any sense at all. Upon hearing her ultimatum renewed, I ran into my bedroom and cried.

(switch to Present Perfect tense)

It's Wednesday, and I've decided to shave my very ugly beard because I cannot think of any way to save it. If I'm going to pound beers with Big Bird and smoke cigarettes with Elmo, it simply has to go. (God! It fucking hurts to write that.)

I have informed my very ugly beard that its days are numbered, and I cannot say that it took the news well. My beard, which has grown so big that it now talks in complete sentences, protested passionately at first. It cited the favorable results of several focus groups that I'd organized while growing it, and it spoke eloquently about the onset of winter and its own insulating effects. "You know there'll be wind?" it said slowly at one point, as if I were stupid. "Your face will chap." And I didn't know how to respond because deep down I knew that my beard was right.

"Beard," I finally said to it, a teardrop falling from my eye. "My hand has been forced. I have no other choice, and I'm sorry. I'll be shaving you on Sunday."

My beard just stared at me.

I wanted to say something to it, anything to placate it because I could sense how small and helpless it felt. But I knew that if I searched for words that couldn't be found and spoke for the sake of speaking, I'd say something stupid that I'd later regret and back myself into a corner from which I couldn't escape. So I just stared back at my beard. And another tear fell from my eye.

Minutes passed as we looked at each other in the mirror, and then at last my beard broke its silence with an attitude that was refreshed and mature. "Well, I must admit, Eater X, we have had our share of good times, haven't we?"

With relief and a sheepish smile I answered, "Yes, we certainly have."

My beard continued, "Can I ask you something, Eater X?"

"Anything, beard," I answered.

"Would it be too much to request a last supper?"

I paused for a moment before answering. I wanted to think things through. I wanted to be certain that by accommodating his request I wouldn't encourage in him a false hope for the future. I thought about all that we'd been through together. I thought about how well I knew him. I had too much respect for my beard to deny him his dying wish. "Of course you can," I finally said.

"Well, then," my beard answered in a satisfied tone. "I'd like it to be meatballs."

(switch to Simple Future tense)

I'll be at Carmine's Restaurant in Atlantic City on Saturday, competing in the Tropicana World Meatball Eating Championship, but I won't be competing for pride and honor, which usually draw me to the table. I'll be competing for the sake of my beard, paying it back for all that it's done for me and sending it off with a flourish. I'll massage meatballs into the hairs of my beard so that my beard enjoys every moment of the contest. Will it cost me? I guess it probably will. I probably won't swallow many. But I don't mind making sacrifices for somebody else, at least not once in a while. It's the part of good living that teaches me about values and humility. They're lessons I've sorely needed.

And maybe the meatballs will stain my face red in the process and give me a four-day tomato sauce beard, comeuppance for my roommate, Jennifer.