My Beard: A short history

 

I haven't been clean shaven in a long time. Having consulted my archives I can confirm that the last time I committed cold, sharp steel to my face was in 2004 when I very reluctantly did so in preparation for an interview to be a life-guard. The fact that I am one of the UK's most mal-coordinated swimmers did not deter me and was not lost on the interviewer who looked on during the swim-test element of the process with an incredulous smirk. I imagine she'd have adopted the same expression if she was asked to assess a haddock's ability to compose and send an email.

 

Miraculously, I wasn't the least buoyant candidate that day. There were a trio of young men who literally could not propel themselves forward more than two feet without standing up, rubbing their eyes, glancing desperately towards the pool side and reluctantly continuing in a frantic, flapping display of misjudged ability. The disappointment of being immediately and ruthlessly rejected was assuaged by their even more obvious aquatic ineptitude.

The interviewer was a cold, angry woman. She had the accusing, hateful expression of a recently disenfranchised stoat. She was the kind of rat-faced, venomous crone that would look much better with a moustache. In fact, I can quite believe that she'd grow a moustache simply to spite and ridicule the sub-par beard growing efforts of her insipid, shuffling husband who no doubt was at the brink of physical and emotional collapse from having to live in her corrosive, vinegary midst. After telling me how I'd wasted everyone's time she closed with a comment that would change my face forever. She handed me back my modest C.V, scanned me from shin to chin and said: "You needn't have shaved". The razor burn and cuts on my face were a dead give away.

 

As I shuffled to Euston to meet my visiting sister I quietly vowed to never again shave my beard off again. It is now as much a part of my face as my eyebrows. In fact, so synonymous has it become with my very essence that I'd wager very highly that if Mrs. Pun-Off and I are blessed with a son come October it will emerge with the light and wispy beginnings of a what I like to call a "Rustic woodsman".

 

In some circles - usually indoctrinated, corporate-livestock - having a beard is enough to identify you as a member of any marginalised group associated with vagrancy and petty crime. What these remorseless bigots don't realise is that sometimes having a beard is a symptom of not being capable of making choices about ones appearance. Thankfully, I am gifted with choice on this crucial matter.  Initially, I decided on a beard as a means of avoiding painful and unsightly shaving rash and to hide the scars of particularly aggressive teenage acne. However, as my skin matured and became more resilient my beard became redundant to this end. But, I enjoyed it and I kept it. Then I grew immeasurable fond it. When people ask me why I have a beard (this happens with surprising frequency by the way) I usually allude to the shaving rash excuse of old - it's just easier that way. But, in my heart I follow the mantra of one of the great beardsmen of our time.

 

With beautiful clarity and with total accuracy to my feelings on the matter John Steinbeck said the following:

 

"My face has not ignored the passage of time, but recorded it with scars, lines, furrows, & erosions. I cultivate this beard not for the usual given reasons of skin trouble or pain of shaving, nor for the secret purpose of covering a weak chin, but as pure unblushing decoration, much as a peacock finds pleasure in his tail. And finally, in our time a beard is the one thing a woman cannot do better than a man, or if she can her success is assured only in a circus."



John Steinbeck



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you John. Thank you so much; for everything. I'm slightly reticent to admit that I actually know this passage off by heart and will recite it occasionally when asked about my beard by people who will a) appreciate the sentiment, and b) be accepting of my pretencions. It's not just a matter of growing, cultivating and maintaining a beard. It's a matter of purpose, a matter of pride and a matter of identity.

 

Stroke a beard near you - relish it. Share it with others. Be proud.