the hair of his chinny chin chin

Every summer the Schwisters would pile into the station wagon and head west for a three-week camping vacation. During this all-too-brief respite from the real world, Dad would focus his energies and attention on the important work of growing a beard. Or a mustache. Or a goatee. . . whatever the whimsical mood of that year's trip suggested. The southwestern deserts and mesas called for a thin, sophisticated Zorro-esque mustache, as if saying, "Watch out. This man is suave, dangerous, and skilled in swordplay." For the Rockies, a full-on burly mountain-man beard was appropriate. He once returned from a tour of Civil War battlefields wearing Abraham Lincoln's square-cut beard and wise expression.

Mostly, though, the exact design and layout---dare I say architecture?---of the facial hair wasn't as important as the simple fact of actively growing something. And any spousal irritations generated by the annual beard project were really just whiskery icing on the cake. Mom would roll her eyes and complain about how prickly he was. Back home, vacation over, Dad would shave off the offending whiskers, and everything would be smooth again.

This all goes a long way toward explaining the Schwister boys' lifelong flirtation with ill-advised facial hair experiments.














In this relatively recent self-portrait, Norm models a classic Errol Flynn stash.