September 4, 2008...11:28 am

On the Margins: Personal Experience with Sideburns

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I generally steer clear of people whose necks are more than 25 percent tattoo-covered, but the sidewalk outside the Safeway was narrow and we were headed right toward each other. This wiry twenty-something gentleman, whose excited smile was as yellow as his wife-beater tank top, was going to say something to me. I just knew it.

“You look exactly like someone,” he shouted. “Yeah, someone famous.”

Then to a fat woman across the parking lot — his common-law wife perhaps — “Hey, who does this guy look like?”

I knew the guy he was thinking of, but I didn’t want to help him out. I just shrugged and smiled and walked by him. It was hot and I had limes to buy; cachaca drunk straight is intolerable.

But I digress.

Because of my high-school-football-player-gone-soft physique, my sunglasses and my mini-fro-bushy-sideburns combo, I am often told that I remind people of noted slapsticker Jack Black.

Jables, despite his generally positive public reception, is not considered a particularly good-looking man. But I never let comparisons to this non-good-looking celebrity get me down because, really, I don’t look that much like him. It’s just the shaggy sideburns.

Something about sideburns makes people without them think that anyone with them looks like anyone else with them. I’ve been called Elvis a few times, too. And if I ever hung out with drunken 20th-century historians, I’m sure I’d occasionally be the target of a slurred, “Hey, guys, check out George McGovern.” I look as much like him as I do Jack Black or Elvis.

So that’s the bad part.

The good part is that people with sideburns tend to like other people with sideburns — creating sort of a brotherhood of the hairy-cheeked. It’s not that sideburns connote any specific personality traits — like, if someone has a mustache you know he’s probably either a biker, a porn star or a douche bag (or my dad, who is none of those other things). But there is a kinship among us. Maybe we all just sort of subconsciously bond over having been called Elvis for our entire adult lives; I’m not sure.

The point is: Yeah, I have to deal with the occasional looky-loo telling me I’m the spitting image of Jack Black or George McGovern or whoever, but I also have something on the sides of my face that bestows membership in a pretty cool club.

—Pat

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