The primal transformation

by Hairy Beard   

Matt finds himself inexplicably growing hairier and hairier.

In the depths of the night, he found himself wandering through a vast swamp, shrouded in mist and dense vegetation. It was a place that felt familiar, as if it held a deep connection to his very existence. Each step he took sank into the damp earth, as he ventured further into the murky terrain.

As he moved forward, drawn by an unseen force, he approached a pit of thick clay quicksand. There was an intriguing quality to its appearance, the way it seemed solid yet held the promise of something more. Obliging the enigmatic pull, he cautiously placed his feet upon the tough surface, expecting the familiar sensation of sinking.

To his surprise, the clay held his weight. It did not give way beneath him but remained resilient, refusing to succumb to his presence. A flicker of disappointment danced in his eyes as he realized that sinking into the depths up to his neck, which he craved, would not happen.

Disappointment turned to frustration as he stood upon the unyielding clay. His gaze fell upon the surrounding landscape, the mist swirling amidst the thick vegetation.

And then, as if the swamp felt his growing frustration, the clay gave way. The surface beneath him cracked and crumbled, unable to bear his weight any longer. The once solid ground disintegrated, exposing the depths beneath.

He looked down, only to realize he was not only naked, but his smooth body was now just the opposite. He looked down past a massive beard, his eyes widening with a mixture of surprise and awe as he watched his hairy legs disappear beneath the surface.

First his legs sank past his knees, the thick hair getting entangled in the clinging clay. He remained stoic, observing the transformation taking place. The quicksand rose higher, enveloping his waist, then climbing up his hairy torso. Each hair became ensnared in the relentless grip of the clay, as if the very essence of his being was being trapped within its confines.

His sinking body reached his beard, and he pulled his arms out of the mire to force it under the surface. Each whisker, thick and intertwined, was now captured in the thick clay, rendering his mouth shut and silencing his voice. The weight of his hairy countenance bore down upon him, intertwining with the earthy embrace.

Minutes turned into hours as his mind drifted between moments of reflection and a quiet determination to escape. His thoughts wandered to the decision that led him here, to the fascination that had drawn him into the depths of the clay, and his inexplicable need to force his beard down to trap it in the clay. Exhausted, his eyes closed as he lost consciousness.

He awoke—aware of the subtle changes within the clay’s grip. With every passing minute, the hardening process seemed to tighten its hold, making his movements more restricted. He realized that every hair on his body and half of his beard were inextricably being encased.

With his beard trapped in the clay, his head fixed was solidly in place, and he could not move it. He could only use his eyes to looks as far left and right as he could. As his body settled into its confinement, he felt a strange sense of acceptance. He could not ignore the growing realization that this is exactly what he needed. He knew the journey of escape would be long and arduous. He would have to rely on patience, resilience, and the support of time to gradually reclaim his freedom from the grasp of the clay. Again, his eyelids became heavy, and he allowed consciousness to leave him. This was where he belonged.

Matt woke up on a Monday morning, groggy and still half-asleep. He stumbled out of bed and made his way towards the bathroom, hoping the shower would help wake him up. As he passed by the mirror, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and paused. He squinted at his face, examining the faint stubble that had grown overnight.

“Wow,” Matt mumbled to himself, rubbing his hand over his chin. “I guess my beard is coming in heavier as I age.”

He made a mental note to buy new razors to take care of the growing facial hair. Little did he know that this seemingly innocuous observation would lead to a series of unexpected changes throughout the week.

As the days progressed, Matt noticed that his beard was growing more rapidly each morning. What started as a light stubble on Monday became a noticeable shadow by Tuesday. By Wednesday, the once-smooth skin on his chest and forearms started showing signs of hair growth. Matt was taken aback by the sudden development, but he couldn’t deny that there was a strange allure to his new appearance.

Throughout the week, his body hair continued to expand, spreading down his neck and becoming more pronounced on his chest. Matt’s eyebrows, too, thickened and became more prominent, framing his eyes with a newfound intensity. It was an unusual transformation, but Matt couldn’t help but find himself intrigued and strangely captivated by his burgeoning masculinity.

As each day passed, Matt found himself spending more and more time trying to conceal the rapid growth of his beard and body hair. He experimented with various grooming techniques, desperately trying to keep up with the ever-expanding forest on his face. It became a part of his morning routine, as he meticulously trimmed and styled his beard to maintain a sense of control. By Thursday it was necessary to take trimmers to the back of his increasingly hairy hands. He was thankful that his work demanded full business attire. True, he was beginning to break out in sweat more and more often, and the trips to the office bathroom to dry off become more common, but thankfully no one had taken notice…yet.

Friday afternoon finally arrived. In the parking lot as he left work a coworker approached him, a glint of admiration in their eyes. “Matt, I’ve got to say, that beard looks great on you!” his coworker exclaimed, offering a genuine compliment. Behind that compliment was an attempt to tease him—to get the story on how it had grown so quickly.

Matt escaped the conversation beyond a thank you, getting in his car. The weekend had finally arrived, and he spent it hibernating at home to consider the ramifications of his transformation. Assuming it would continue—and there was no reason to believe it would not—he needed to figure out a plan a serious morning grooming routine to assure it didn’t arouse curiosity or elicit any more comments from anyone—anyone at all.

As Matt spent the entire weekend at home, his focus centered on strategizing the best approach to shave and trim his beard and body hair in preparation for Monday morning. He understood that simply maintaining the current length was not a viable solution. He needed a plan to ensure he arrived at work looking no different from Friday.

Matt pulled out a notepad and started brainstorming different scenarios. He contemplated the optimal time to begin his grooming routine, considering factors such as hair growth rate, his own comfort, and the time required for a thorough trim.

It was clear: he decided that Sunday evening would be the ideal time to start his grooming process. It would give him enough time to complete the task while still allowing for a good night’s sleep before the workweek began.

He was thankful he had figured out his plan so quickly that Saturday morning. Since he had the time, and he knew it would grow back anyway, he decided to do a few tests trimming his beard at different lengths to measure its growth.

After lunch he sat down with a trimmer in hand, ready to tackle his beard, only to get lost in his own thoughts. His mind would drift, and he would find himself staring at the reflection of his increasingly hairy body.

Daydreams consumed him, filled with scenarios where he would attempt to trim his beard and body hair, only to have them grow back thicker and faster than before. These vivid daydreams would leave him momentarily stunned, snapping back to reality only to find his beard even longer and wilder than he had imagined.

In his attempts to regain control, Matt set alarms and reminders to keep himself on track. But no matter how determined he was, his thoughts kept drifting back to the overwhelming presence of hair on his face and body.

Matt’s inability to concentrate only got worse as the hours passed by, and with that realization a growing sense of panic crept in. He questioned whether he would be able to carry out his plan—or even remember to do it. If he couldn’t shave any of it off now, how was he going to actually carry out his plan. He wondered if he had figured out the best time to start. He didn’t remember, so he told himself to add that to the plan he needed…to…figured…out. He snapped out of this latest trance only see himself again in the mirror, beard clearly longer than…

…He needed to rest. He was beginning to obsess about it, and he needed to just rest…until…to be able to…and back again his eyes cleared and yes, it was now undeniable true when he focused on the image reflecting back at him. His beard was even longer, his body even hairier than before.

He grunted. Then grunted again, and then again. Each grunt came following his unsuccessful attempt to get out of his chair.

As Matt struggled to stand up from his chair, he realized that the sheer weight of his beard and body hair seemed to be pulling him down. It was as if they had taken a life of their own, growing at an astonishing rate that he couldn’t comprehend. Panic surged through his veins as he contemplated the possibility of being consumed by his own overgrown hair.

Summoning all his strength, Matt managed to break free from the grip of the chair and stumbled towards the bathroom. He desperately searched for his trimmer, hoping to regain control over his unruly hair. But as he looked into the mirror, he couldn’t find his reflection. Instead, all he saw was a thick curtain of hair that obscured his face, leaving only his eyes peeking through.

Fear and frustration overwhelmed him, and he made a clumsy attempt to trim his beard and body hair with the trimmer. However, as soon as the blades touched his hair, they became tangled and overwhelmed by the sheer volume of hair. The trimmer buzzed and sputtered, unable to make any significant progress.

In a last-ditch effort, Matt reached for a pair of scissors, hoping that manual cutting might provide some relief. But as he brought the blades close to his face, he hesitated, realizing the danger of his predicament.

Feeling defeated, Matt collapsed onto the bathroom floor. He surrendered to the exhaustion and drifted into a deep sleep.

It all made sense somehow. While he could not comprehend it—or really anything at all—he had transformed into a primal beast, unable to speak. He wandered through a large swamp he somehow recognized. Every step was arduous, as he stumbled through the thick mud that buried his legs up to his hair covered knees. He had to keep pulling his beard up to keep it from dragging on the top of the muddy surface and often caused him to trip and fall face first in to mire.

He was in search of something—he knew he needed to find it, whatever it was.

Suddenly, Matt’s eyes fluttered open, and he found himself back in the chair, in front of the mirror with the trimmer still in his hand. With all of his might and concentration, he stood up and stumbled to the bathroom. Fighting the primal urge to not trim a hair of the primal man he saw in front of him, he raised the trimmer and slowly but successfully trimmed the beard clean off. Beyond the thick stubble that remained, he saw his former self in the mirror. This sight cleared his head and released him from the grip of the transformation he had earlier thought he could not stop.

With renewed determination, he continued with the rest of his body. He showered, did a practice run dressing and once again attacked the newly grown short beard that had grown back.

That was the trick. He could not let his beard and fur grow out of control, or he would lose himself completely. Going forward would be an effort, but one he new he could handle.

He grabbed his laptop and went on an online shopping spree. Not just one new trimmer. Five of them. 10 pairs of surgical scissors. Lotion for his skin to counter any rawness brought on by using either. He even bought a case of shaving cream, as well a 200 disposable razors. He wondered if he could really ‘shave’ with a razor and cream again, but if he could, he needed tons of both.

He bought case of large plastic bags used for yard waste to clean up all of the hair that was already covering the bathroom counter and floor—and all the future times he would need to clean it up again.

It was late Sunday night. He returned to the bathroom for one last trim down of his beard so it would match the length it was last Friday—and trimmed down the hair on his arms and the back of his hands. He cleaned up his chest to below the collar line, and did the same for his shoulders and back.

Exhausted, he set his alarm and passed out on his bed.

The alarm went off as if he had just set it. It was Monday morning already, and Matt laid there on his back, unable to move. Some vague dream he awoke from involved being immobilized, he seemed to remember. No matter, as the dream faded, it was as if his body had become encased in cement. He at once both liked the sensation, which got him hard, and with a sense of panic…he needed to get up and groom again—because of course without even looking, he knew his beard and fur had grown back overnight.

It took him about a half hour he didn’t have, but he ultimately was able to get out of bed and head to the bathroom.

As he looked into the mirror, he couldn’t help but feel a mixture of acceptance and frustration. The growth of his beard and body hair had—of course—not stopped. However, he found himself angered he had to shave any of it at all. He liked it. He liked it very much.

With an audible grunt, he trimmed it down again, making sure it was a bit shorter than on Friday night, so as the day moved on, no one be the wiser. Again, a shave of the neck was needed. However, he realized with a start that he could bypass trimming or shaving down his chest, shoulders, or back hair if he just wore a tie. It was unconventional for a day he would not be meeting with customers, but it knocked off that half hour he lost earlier attempting to move and get out of bed. He looked down and grunted again. The back of his hands needed a close trim to minimize the dark shadow of fur that he knew wouldn’t go unnoticed.

While he found he didn’t want to do so, the action seemed to help clear his mind and focus on meeting his responsibilities, be they work related or otherwise. In other words, he found himself feeling more human, with a clearer head that was ready to face the day…hopefully, the week.

He got to work as if and greeted his co-workers, pleased his appearance—other than the tie—was nothing remarkable. After lunch he found himself at his desk stumbling (again) in his ability to think. He had a hard time reading text in front of him. It was all just lines on a page that made symbols that repeated in an unrecognizable pattern. Tuesday, he found himself search for words when he spoke. To do so without effort eluded him, lost more in more in a primal fog.

Wednesday came and went, but by then he knew it could not ignore the facts. The increasing effort to pull off the act that he had no issue communicating with others was beginning to raise eyebrows as his understanding of verbal and written language continued to fade.

He got home and stripped his clothes off as was now custom. Wearing clothes had become a growing mystery to him and he didn’t like it. Naked as he was meant to be, he found comfort realizing what was happening to him. It felt right. And he was tired of fighting it.

He grunted and reached for his phone and composed a text message to his manager: he was taking personal leave for the rest of the week, perhaps the following week, he didn’t know yet. He had to go catch a flight back home to help his siblings with a serious and unexpected family emergency.

With the message sent, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he embraced the uncertainty that lay ahead. His primal transformation was now cleared of distraction. No longer would he trim or shave—his beard or his hairy body.

His phone rang. His manager was calling back. Reluctantly he answered the phone, unintentionally with a verbal grunt of frustration. He was able to compose himself one last time as he strained to focus on the conversation, confirming the news he had sent via text. He was sorry, but there was nothing he could do. His manager was sympathetic and wished him well.

Matt threw the phone against the wall. It did not break. Frustrated, he picked it up again and smashed it against the corner of a nearby table. Then again to assure its destruction.

He grunted again as he stumbled to his bathroom. It was time to rid himself of the unwanted grooming equipment he had been torturing himself daily. He needed to assure that he made it impossible to ever trim or shave again.

Task completed, he sat back down in the chair in front of the full-size mirror and witnessed what he had always been and would always be. He reveled in the sensation of his wild, untamed hair that covered him and witnessed his beard creep up to his cover his upper cheeks, stopping just below his eyes.

As the soft glow of the morning sun filtered through the curtains, Matt slowly stirred in his cozy bed. He blinked away the remnants of sleep, a sense of disorientation clinging to him like a fading dream. The images from the past weeks were still fresh in his mind—the thrilling adventures, the challenges he faced, and the transformation he had undergone. It had all been so vivid, so real.

Slowly, he pushed himself up and sat on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his hair. It felt different—thicker, coarser. He glanced at the alarm clock on his bedside table, and the date on its display caught his eye. It was Monday morning, just like any other. But something was different.

As he stood up and walked to the bathroom, he couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu. He turned on the light, and the image that greeted him in the mirror was astonishing. There, looking back at him, was the face of a man he didn’t recognize—a face adorned with thick, dark, short stubble, covering his jawline and neck.

Matt’s eyes widened in disbelief as he brought his hand up to touch the rugged facial hair. He pinched himself, half-expecting to wake up from what felt like an incredibly vivid dream. But the pinch only brought a sharp jolt of sensation. He was wide awake.

A grin slowly spread across his face as he looked at his transformed reflection. The adventures, the challenges, the wild experiences—all of it had been real. The metamorphosis he had undergone was a testament to his journey into the unknown.

With newfound determination and a sense of adventure coursing through his veins, Matt met his reflection’s gaze and whispered to himself, “Bring it on... wildman!”

Now to go find a swamp. Soon, before he lost his ability to think or speak.

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