Aaron Presnall (JuanPabloGarcia) offers a glimpse into what four months of bearded rebellion means to him

Editor's Note: I (Jamey) am rounding out four months of growing a beard on the internet with hundreds of guys. I just got back to Hawaii from Nashville, and I thought I'd post a pal's thoughts about the Throwdown weekend where a couple hundred beards got together for three days. Here it is, completely unedited.

Just to get this started, and for those of you who are new to these things, I don't usually tag people in my notes. I post too many to do it often, but this is for you as much as it is for me. All of you. And me. Just to make that clear.

My recollections from this past weekend might be a tad hazy. Beer was had. Much beer. I actually think I remember all of it, but that is definitely beside the point. It changes the story. The recollection of events. All that said, I spend a lot of my time writing and remembering the events of inebriations past, so it should be pretty accurate. From someone's perspective.

Have you ever walked into a mirror? Have you ever looked into a mirror and wished you could just walk into it and hang out with the dude in the mirror looking at you? That was the first thing wondered when thinking about how to describe the Throwdown. It was similar to walking into a mirror world where everything is backwards. Convention has been thrown into the wind, been caught by a stiff breeze, and sailed gently into a mire of taco-eating men. Men with beards. Walking into Las Palmas felt like that. Like walking into a story where I instantly belonged. The cast was huge, and everyone was the protagonist.

I was a bit uncomfortable at the beginning. What can I expect? I've never walked into a room filled with people I recognize but don't really know. I had met some of you before, but the rest were mysteries. Faces in pictures. Amazed and amazing faces in amazing pictures. The talent was overwhelming. Not just in the taking. The visual conceptualization of so many of your shots showed me more than anything that I was outclassed. Out of my league and swimming with sharks. Bearded sharks. With laser eyes. It makes me glad my talents lie elsewhere. It makes me glad I was there.

Warming up to a few new people at a time is easy. Baby steps to camaraderie. Warming up to you fellows of beard was laughably easy. Hundreds of friends who knew what it was like to taste every bite of food twice. Napkins a necessity. The Bearded Prom was the perfect ice-breaker. Like a prom, no one was dancing, and most were in their own circles. Then an amazing thing happened. Unlike high school, people started branching out. Talking to strangers. Weaving through the crowds, hellbent on meeting as many people as they could. That's what I did. I almost feel bad that I didn't meet more of you. I'm sure I'm not alone. But I do feel a little sheepish that I had to ask most of your names thrice. I'm not good at that particular mental connect. Things were also getting pretty hazy by then.

Bowling was a treat. And by "treat", I mean "something that I would never have expected to run as smoothly as it did, and I will never forget what a blast it was." Finding an empty lane was the hard part. Finding a place to belong was easy. Downing brews and throwing rocks. I was in lane 21 of 24, and at one point, when I looked left, I saw a sea of drunken bearded men being laughing and bowling and being rowdy. When I looked right, the nine or so 8-year-old girls and their parents were as far away from us as they could be. Even the girl who had just bowled. I can sit here and describe it in words, but words can't really do the experience justice.

I think the short breaks were necessary. I know I didn't get the full effect by staying in a different hotel as most of you, but I get overwhelmed by too much humanity. A little bit of time is good to recharge. I think this is what some people call "an aside".

The Mercy Lounge. There was no mercy that night. The sea of beards broke like a wave. And like a liquid, we filled whatever container we entered. The party was nonstop. The photobooth was...does saying "a lot of fun" count as a cop out? I'm having trouble coming up with synonyms for "good". Delicious tacos! Whomever had that idea was a genius. There's not all that much more I can say about this. Except: "Eat yo' samwich. I'll kick yo' samwich."

I spent most of Sunday trying to recover a bit. I've lived in Nashville, so I didn't need to see the sites. I visited some friends and finished some errands. Y'know...mundane, non-beard-related activities. Okay...back to the party.

After meeting up with Johnny, the party started again. The after-party. The after-glow. The after-math. The after-most-of-you-had-gone-home. I'm going to describe it for those of you who were not able to make it. The party took place in what I remember as "the oldest townhouse in Nashville". An über-exclusive cigar bar that is never open to the public. All this thanks goes to Jamey. Of course, when I tried, he replied, "Hey...I'm Just Jamey." The building is three stories tall and is a whole block deep. Going inside, the place seemed to go forever. And we had free reign. Cigars were smoked. Beer and scotch a-plenty. And meatballs. The champagne menu contained a bottle for 1,007. There was no dollar sign. In the same room, we found one of Andrew Jackson's hairs. It was framed on the wall.

All of my thanks goes to everyone I met. Everyone I spoke to. Everyone I was fortunate enough to interact with. This might be a poor tribute to the experience, but it's mine to give. If any of you think it's worth passing along, please do. Thank you, Mackle, for making it all possible. Thank you all for making it work.

I wish you all the best. You all deserve it.

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