I’ve had a buxom beard for a little over 5 years. Correction, up until last Sunday evening, I had a buxom beard. In many ways that beard was my stunt double. After several weeks on my mental teeter-totter on the topic, I decided it was time for the beard to go. This is the story of why I had to shave my beard. But before you can know why I decided to retire what had become a synonym for myself, first you need to know why I grew it.
I grew the beard for a gaggle of reasons, some unbeknownst to me at the time. I thought the beard was a curiosity. Something I needed to get out of my system. I would learn later how correct that truly was but for reasons different. Beards always presented an allure to me. As soon as I thought I could pull one off I did. I always kept ’em close though and never for too long. I’d grow and keep one for a bit. Then I’d get bored and shave it. After a bit I’d grow tired of shaving and I’d grow one again. One of the assets of the beard was age obstruction. Must be part of my inheritance from my father. Here’s a guy who looks about 15 years younger than he actually is. That’s with a beard that he’s had since before I was born. I too have always looked young. I tease that the beard prevents people from asking where my mommy or daddy are. My youthful glow will pay off down the line.
Aside from bolstering my apparent physical maturity, I like how I look with a beard. But I never thought I had the fortitude to go big. That was until a friend, lovingly monikered for a time as Beard Jarvis, stoked the flame of my faith. We were at a pre-Christmas brunch and I was telling BJ of my admiration for his full-figured follicle festival.
“If only I could grow that. But, I’ve got these spots where the corners of my mouth meet my cheeks. It just doesn’t grow as thickly.”
“Mine are the same way! Once it comes in it all kind of blends together. You’ll be fine.”
So I decided to try. I stopped shaving and waited for my destiny to arrive at my doorstep. BJ was right. Everything happened just as he had foretold. As it came in, over the course of many months, the questions began. They were mostly a version of one essential inquiry.
“How long you gonna let that thing go?”
I was working for a rather large publicly traded corporation at this time. My position was in sales. This required a formal business getup. The beard was an obvious departure. It turned out to be prophetic. A little more than one year after I stopped shaving I’d put in my notice. Two weeks later I’d be working for myself. My first day would be Valentines Day. That makes a few days ago our 4th anniversary at Of the Sea.
So why did I grow the beard? What role did it play in starting the business? The answers are intertwined. I thought I was growing the beard to try it out, to investigate a hunch. I’ve come to understand that was a small part of it. I wasn’t growing a beard. The beard was growing me. I didn’t realize then, when I decided to grow it, that I was stunted. I had hit a ceiling. I didn’t see it though. I felt it but didn’t know what it was. What I felt was the discomfort from trying to grow in an environment that didn’t have the space required to do so. So there I stood, hunched over not knowing that my posture was anemic.
But my beard knew. And it had a plan.
My beard came with secret powers. Attention was one. This would help me grab the attention of pretty much anybody in any setting. There aren’t a lot of fellows with a beard long enough to have its own beard. Another, much more valuable accessory, was confidence. The beard made me feel good about myself. Men I respected gushed of their admiration for my “courage” to wear such a thing. The insinuation was that it must require a bonafide masculinity to grow a lengthy beard and to do so in opposition to social expectations. I don’t work in a coal mine or as a gladiator. I wear a suit and consult business owners. Professional appearance is a thing, one that most don’t challenge. The whole thing is utter nonsense. It’s just facial hair. But for some reason it was a symbol to others and that gave me confidence. All of this was happening without me realizing.
I parlayed the beard into a business. I reasoned that if I could grow the beard and make that work then I could grow a business and make that work too. The beard was the first expression of myself that I had nurtured in what turned out to be too long. I had fallen in a groove of my own making and was digging it deeper. If I didn’t climb out soon I likely never would. The beard was simply an S.O.S. from the future sent by yours truly.
At the beginning of the business, the beard was a great marketing tool. Who’s the guy in the suit with the honey badger attacking his face? It quickly became part of my personal brand and that of the business. It’s hard not to spot the homeless guy all dressed up at the event. It’s a divergent characteristic that was difficult to ignore. There’s a certain mystique that comes along with it. It’s a symbol of strength, creativity and higher learning depending on who I’d be speaking with. It’s old fashioned so a certain measure of wisdom and tradition can be assigned as well. I kept it for over 5 years so you can add commitment to the list.
So why did I have to shave it? Actually, I just answered that. I had to shave it for all of the reasons why I kept it. The beard had taken on all this meaning to me. It had become a symbol more powerful than its purpose. There was a time in there when I didn’t think I could shave it even if I wanted to. I felt the expectations of others. To many, the beard and me are one and the same. A lot of good change took place while I wore it. I was fearful that if I shaved, the bond might be broken. Perhaps the magic might run off in the night? I’ve always identified as someone who doesn’t believe in superstition yet that’s precisely what had developed between me and my beard. Before I had the beard I was a slightly more fearful person. Wearing the obnoxious beard was slight therapy for that. Lastly, I’ve been needing a change for some time. I’ve thought about shaving it for months but couldn’t muster the courage to do it.
When I grew the beard I was exploring curiosity, standing against expectations and was in need of a change. When I realized last Sunday that all of those were at play again, the decision became sharply focused like the double-bladed razor that’s been hibernating Rip Van Winkle-style in the back of my vanity drawer.
So that’s the story of my beard. It’s silly and absurd and ridiculous and true.
I’m going to miss it a little. I probably never needed it though. There’s only way to prove it.
P.S. I kept the handlebar mustache. I like the way it looks. Most don’t have the pepper in their stepper to wear one. I like that too. So maybe I’m not completely cured after all.
