To Beard or Not to Beard

My chin stubble had been an insult to my manhood since early adolescence, but it was only the icing, or lack thereof, on the cake of my doubtful masculinity. As if it wasn't insulting enough that my chest hair is singular and my fishing and hunting skills would make my survival in the wild dependent on berries and acorns, that my highest sports achievement was getting to third base in little league, whereupon I peed my pants praying for the end of the world, I couldn't get past the average 8th grader in the beard growing game. Many Facebook friends participate in No Shave November (for what purpose I don't recall), but despite my efforts I ended up looking like No Shave Since Tuesday.

During my work life, much of which was spent in uniform, having no facial hair was standard, ostensibly to ensure a proper fit to a gas mask should the occasion arise. What the bearded cops of today do about that I don't know, but perhaps agencies capitulated so that the male officers could match their blue/green sleeve tattoos. My, how times have changed. In any case, I never really cared to have a beard or mustache except for the principle that, dadgummit, I ought to be able to generate one. How dare my body betray me.

Recently, I was back in Missouri to help clean out my in-laws' old farmhouse and decided to lessen the inconvenience of it all by foregoing shaving. The stubble seemed to take some form of shape and substance in a way that it never had before. Possibly due to some mold in the old place, who knows? Nothing beautiful and bushy, but springing forth a hope I had never had before. I also realized that in my retirement and advancing age (there is no other kind I suppose), my personal appearance was of little importance to anyone and I was willing to suffer through the humility of sprouting to see what might develop.

Now, nearly six weeks after launch, I have a reasonably decent facsimile of a beard and mustache. And, like a child who begs for a toy they finally get but really don't like, I'm not sure I want it. It seems like a victory, of which I have few at my age from the corpus perspective. My testosterone left me, my pancreatic function limps, my knees are not a sure thing, my eye doctor says let her know when I want my cataracts removed, and my mental and verbal gymnastics have slipped from Olympian level to pre-school tumbling proficiency. But I have my beard.

I thought having a beard would make personal care less complicated, but I still have to trim and groom the thing. My nose and my lip used to leave each other alone but now have a relationship due to the mustache which tickles with every breath. I find myself absent mindedly stroking my whiskers like a James Bond villain plotting a lunar hijacking, something that has always been mildly annoying to me among the bearded ones. The gray mass does little for my appearance, making me look neither younger nor older and more distinguished. And, like buying a red car and suddenly seeing red cars everywhere it seems that every old dude has a beard maintaining my comfortable conformity but denying the uniqueness I expected from having a beard.

For now, although I'm ambivalent enough to say I may change my mind by tomorrow morning's mirror, I think I'm keeping the darned thing, waiting for the inevitable day that I over trim and make it look even stupider and decide to go back to facial nakedness. I've had my beardmitzvah and declared myself a man, so there's that.