If you ever want to know what people really think of you, grow a beard. I did and I immediately discovered that family members, close friends, casual acquaintances and complete strangers, many of whom would never dream of offering an opinion of your attire, your home or your mate, have no trouble offering a disturbingly detailed critique of your face.
It all started with one of those summer colds that seem to hang on forever. Several Saturdays ago, feeling miserable, I decided that I was not up to the exertion of shaving. Since I didn’t shave Saturday there was no real point in shaving on Sunday, and then on Monday, which is my day off, I was feeling better but I didn’t shave because who shaves on their day off? This is why I woke up Tuesday morning with the start a surprisingly thick beard, although the main surprise was that the beard that I kind of expected would be salt and pepper was mainly salt with very little pepper.
I had an early indication of how this would go when I got to work on Tuesday and the office manager asked me if I was growing a beard or had just neglected to wash my face. “I’m starting a beard,” I said shortly and she nodded. “Sure is gray,” she said.
By Wednesday I learned from an assortment of coworkers and acquaintences that my scruffy beard made me look way older and much younger, and also very distinguished and vaguely disreputable. Thursday, I saw my good friend Layne and her husband Pedro at Publix and Layne said it was a good look because it covered up most of my wrinkles, but Pedro said it brought out my crow’s feet. “Grow it long and comb it up over your eyes,” Pedro suggested earnestly and he and Layne laughed uproariously.
Thursday, two of my clients, June and Dottie, both 78, decided to have a serious debate about the aesthetics of my beard, and were not in the least inhibited by the fact that I was standing next to them at the time.
“It doesn’t do him any favors,” said June, eyeing me appraisingly.
“I always think that a man with a beard is hiding something,” Dottie agreed.
“Excuse me,” I said. “You know that I’m standing right here?”
They both ignored me. “Of course he’s hiding something,” said June, “what man isn’t?” and Dottie agreed grimly.
On Sundays I usually have dinner with my siblings at my sister’s house and prior to this, dreading the inevitable “graybeard” comments, I invested in a box of “Just for Men” beard color. This was a seriously bad move because even though the color on the box was “light brown” the color on my face was “shoe polish black.”
“You look like GI Joe,” said my brother by way of greeting, but my sister disagreed. “I think you look like Hugh Jackman,” she said loyally. She paused. “Well, maybe Hugh Jackman’s much, much older brother.” I glared at her. “Or his father.”
“Grandfather,” said my other sister and, giggling, they all high-fived each other.
On the way home from dinner I asked my partner whether he thought I should keep the beard. My partner is the classic absent-minded professor type. “When did you grow a beard?” he asked, which pissed me off, so I didn’t speak the rest of the way home. I don’t think he noticed.
After some serious soul searching I decided to keep the beard because the benefits of not shaving trumped the editorial comments that, I assumed, would eventually taper off; and taper off they did, until I was at Walgreen’s a couple of days ago.
“Lose the beard,” said a tall older woman imperiously.
I looked at her blankly. “Do I know you?” I said.
She shook her head. “I read your column,” she said, “and you look nothing like your picture. With that beard your readers can’t recognize you!”
The beard is staying.