It’s not the applause. It’s not the artistic satisfaction. And it’s certainly not the payday.
It’s the facial hair.
More importantly, it’s the “get out of shaving that ridiculous beard off despite your wife’s desperate protestations free” card that I get with each show. Honestly, the directors don’t even ask me to grow facial hair. I just try to figure out what I can get away with, grow it, then I walk through the Mission (or Williamsburg, depending on which coast I’m on) and soak in the jealous gazes of the hipsters with their disapproving girlfriends in tow.
So… theater. It’s the key to having both ridiculous facial hair AND a significant other.
And now, for your amusement, a gallery of regrettable facial hair, with no regrets.