Today started out like any other. I snoozed my alarm 18 times. I woke up and had coffee and yogurt. I did the dishes and took a shower. I arrived at work, and then lunch came. Pretty normal stuff. But then, “You know what?” I said to myself. “I think I’ll go and get a haircut.”

So off I went. See, this is quite an unusual circumstance. I usually cut my hair…err…my lovely wife Kelsey, I mean, usually cuts my hair. She does a fantastic job. It’s free, and she knows what I want and how I want it. It’s an easy procedure.

I’ve been to a hairdresser twice in the last four years. Once two weeks before my wedding. It was a terrible experience. She didn’t even touch the top, shaved off the sides, and expected payment. I know I might not have much hair on the top of my head, but yes, I would like what little there is up there cut, too, please.

The second time was about a month ago. I went to the same location I just arrived back from, in fact. She did a fantastic job. Absolutely wonderful. Her touch was light as a feather. I could hardly tell there was a razor being pushed into my head at all. It came out even, beautifully so, and she was finished without a peep of conversation. No small talk. No bullshit. Just a haircut.

And then… today. Today, my friends, is a day that will go down as the day that I lost a good friend. Nay, a great friend. An addition that not only made me a man, but a friend who was there for me through thick and thin. Today is the day that I lost my beard.

You might be asking yourself “But Reed, how would a man just go and cut off your beard without asking you?” I asked myself that very same question. The only answers I could come up with are as follows. 1) He was unbearded, himself, therefore he must’ve been jealous of my beard in all its glory, or 2) he just doesn’t understand the sanctity of a man’s beard.

You might also be asking yourself a second question: “But Reed, how could you let him cut off your beard?” Like I would allow such a terrible thing to be done. He pulled out his razor, turned it on, and before even making a single pass at the back of my head, he set the butt of the razor right up against my cheek and began pulling upwards to the top of my head. I looked over out of the corner of my eye into the mirror, and I saw it. It was gone. A straight line of beardless cheek ran up the side of my face.

What am I to do at this point? Say “Whoa dude c’mon now let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Just cut my head hair like I asked you to and leave the beard out of this.”? No. Because then I’d be walking around with half a beard. The only thing worse than a man with no beard at all is a man with half a beard.

So I sat. I sat through every horrible second that he shaved over my cheeks, my upper lip, my chin. Oh, my once-glorious chin. Each pass he made caused more of my beloved beard to flitter down past my face. And I had to sit there as it lay right in front of me, crying out “I’ll miss you.”

The last question you may be asking is “Well Reed, why didn’t you say anything?”

Could you say something? Would you have said something? I was horrified! Mortified, even. This is possibly the worst experience I’ve ever had in my life, and I had to sit through every single moment of it. By the time I knew what was going on, it was too late. All I could do was sit there in silence and watch as he destroyed the one thing that separates men from children playing ball in the street.

Well never again, friends. Never again shall I undergo this sort of psychological, physical, and emotional trauma. I will never be returning to any haircutting establishment ever again. Because now I am scared. I’m scared not only for myself, but for my beard. I will never pay $14 for a haircut again. Tonight I will go and buy new sheers. I will purchase the highest grade of haircutting equipment $30 can buy, and I’ll do it myself…err…have Kelsey help me out, so that this horrible tragedy may never be repeated.

I share this story with you, fellow men, so that you may never have to experience this. I warn you of the perils of trusting your beard to another so that you may never undergo the same pain that I have.

It may grow back, yes, but it’ll never be the same. It’ll never be my first beard. The beard that I’ve had for over four years. The beard that’s seen me through thick and thin. The beard that’s seen the Pacific Ocean and the Grand Canyon. The beard that tickled Kelsey’s face as we shared our first kiss as husband and wife. It will never be the same.

Goodbye, old friend. I’ll miss you. May my future beard be a testament to your honor, valor, and bravery.