Some men wear beards and some do not; personally I think that the decision to sprout facial hair is a man’s personal choice and, like all such choices, not really open to public debate. But having said that, I realize that just as some men wear beards and some do not, some people like beards and some do not. I don’t have a problem with this and my advice to people who don’t like beards is this: Don’t grow one.
I have gone through several bearded periods in my life. The first was a fine, bushy number that I grew during graduate school which I shaved to get a “real” job. My second beard came in my early-forties after I had an unfortunate run-in with a banana spider which resulted in sores on my face that were so horrific that I grew a beard just to hide them.
The next, and current, beard sprouted about a year ago when I woke up one morning and decided that after 40 years I was sick of shaving. I was encouraged to do so with the realization that now, in my late 50’s, no one is looking at me anyway and if anyone is they certainly don’t care if I have a beard or not, which is actually quite liberating.
But then two weeks ago we went to New Jersey to visit my partner’s mother, Duckie, for her birthday. Duckie does not like beards and was not shy about telling me. And telling me. And telling me.
When I entered her house I leaned down to give her an obligatory peck-on-the-cheek and she pushed me away. “Ugh,” she said, curling her lip. “Don’t come near me with that thing.”
I was confused. “What thing?” I asked.
“That growth on your face,” she said, as though referring to a leprous boil. “I can’t believe you make my son look at you with that thing,” she continued.
“Your son does not seem to mind,” I said, but I was thinking that if growing a beard was a valid reason to not kiss Dickie hello and good-bye I should have grown one years ago. And that was that.
Or so I thought. Any other human being would have just dropped the subject, but not Duckie, whose pattern for almost 90 years has been to wear down the people around her, mainly her husband and sons, with sheer, merciless, relentless repetition.
On the way to Chili’s for her birthday dinner she remarked out of the blue, and to no one in particular, that she would never trust a bearded man because “God knows what he was hiding.” When I mentioned that both Abe Lincoln and Jesus Christ had beards she shot me a look that clearly said I was a godless communist.
At dinner as I slid into the booth across from Duckie she said, “You have to move.” I looked at her dumbfounded, and she said, “If I have to look at the beard it will wreck my appetite.” I said nothing but was seething inside.
Right as dessert was served Duckie told me my beard made me look 20 years older. As I paid the bill she asked why I would choose to make myself “even more unattractive.” Showing uncommon restraint I said nothing, but when I looked to my partner to support me he just shrugged his shoulders helplessly and gave me his “She’s 89” look.
As we drove back to Duckie’s house I kept repeating to myself, “She’s 89. She’s 89. She’s 89,” as though it were my mantra. I dismissed as petty the thought that she had been like since since birth. By the time we were back at Duckie’s house I had calmed down considerably mainly because I had resolved to let my beard grow so long I could pass for Amish but, uncharacteristically Duckie said nothing more about my whiskers.
We stayed at Duckie’s house only as long as we had to and prepared to head back to our hotel. As my partner kissed her good-night I remembered her earlier rebuff so I gave her a friendly wave before getting into the rental car.
We were barely out of the driveway when my partner’s cell phone rang; it was Duckie and he put her on speaker phone: She was in tears.
“Why does Guy hate me?” she wailed. “He did not even kiss me good night.”