The Beard

I never felt compelled to let my facial hair grow beyond a few days. It wasn’t that it was patchy and lacking gravitas, it has plenty. It wasn’t that people didn’t like it (although I’d often blame my wife’s distaste, it really didn’t impact my decision either way). Truly I’ve always felt it odd to have this sometimes itchy but soft bush hanging from my face, grabbing small morsels of food, and scaring me each time I glance into a mirror.

And so when we had a conversation and she claimed my beard didnt grow well, I decided to try and wait in earnest for it to come about.

I learned that for one who hasn’t worn a beard, it’s almost always the first topic of conversation when it makes its first appearance — whether in person or on FaceTime — it always grabs attention the same way it collects drops of water and beer carelessly sipped.

A good thing? A momentary reinvention of self, however short lived. A reason for a colleague to observe a look of erudition or a particularly forward aunt to quip that it drips with aging. A few granules of salt among what’s largely pepper does the trick, perhaps more aged as the salt takes over time.

I’ve found it makes for a great comforter draped over a bed of face fat, bringing order to the unbridled indulgence of winter. It flatters far better than just a day of growth, a bed looking like it is bare with just a top sheet, showing all imperfections and difficult to maintain without creases and undulations.

Another bit of reinvention awaits as a sharp knife is stropped to shave the beast. Nothing a few weeks of patience can’t bring back to life.