Checking the calendar this morning I suddenly realized this is an important birth date, not one where you’d send a card or a present, but certainly a date to be celebrated. On this very day in 1978 my beard was born!
I distinctly remember peering into the mirror that day and finally noticing definite signs of emerging fuzz. What I didn’t realize then was that birth pains would be unavoidable.
Beards weren’t very common then, so I expected a few polite pro and con comments the first few days, but the way some people carried on about my new chin whiskers, I began to think they owned Gillette Razors stock.
I admit at first I did resemble an escapee from a chain gang, so when a coworker asked, “Did you forget to shave today?” I managed to change the subject, but later in the week as I became fuzzier others began to insist on an explanation until one popped the question: “Are you growing a beard?”
I was tempted to invent an alibi, but how long could I pretend to be a heat rash or acne victim? I’m not good at bare or fuzzy-faced lies. I always feel like my nose is growing longer or my pants are about to ignite.
Once the beaver was out of the bag I lost my claim to complete beard ownership. There were frequent shareholder meetings with complaints that I was not growing the beard properly, as if it were a lawn I could seed, weed and fertilize. “It’s not glossy on both sides and the color isn’t even,” was one protest.
Members of different factions could not avoid the subject whenever we met, even if it was at a meeting called to solve a major business problem . “We found a big mistake in the Smedley contract,” I announced at one session. “If we don’t correct the wording, we could lose thousands!”
“Your beard is getting very scraggly. Why don’t you shave it off?”
“Forget my beard for the moment! There’s $50,000 at stake!”
“It’s going to look even worse as it gets longer.”
“Miss Drumgule,” I said, pleading with the critic’s assistant, will you please help your boss solve this problem at once?”
“Maybe you should try talking to it,” she replied. “It really helps my philodendron.”
Beside the boistrous pro and con groups there was a very polite neutral faction, kind and considerate with genteel manners, who never once acknowledged I was actually growing a beard. They had the sensitivity to look me right in my bristling chin and never say a word about it. This was driving me bananas!
Around the third week I launched my counter-offensive. While riding the elevator with a new accountant, he suddenly asked, “Do you want my honest opinion of your beard?”
“Certainly,” I replied, “If you want my opinion of that suit you’re wearing and your rather odd haircut.” He decided to get off at the next stop and climb the remaining 12 flights.
A middle-aged lady manager of Mediterranean heritage interrupted a crowded meeting to tell me at high volume that my new beard made me look disreputable. “I apologize for my unruly beard, Madam and may I add, yours is coming in splendidly.”
At that stage many of my friends and relatives had yet to see my newly landscaped face. At first I would cringe when I saw one approaching, but eventually I scripted my response to their initial remarks: “Yes , I’m growing a beard . Everyone who’s young at heart has encouraged me with compliments. The old fuddy-duddies have put it down. What do you think?”
I started the beard as an experiment, prepared to hit the destruct button if it went haywire. The second week it actually looked like across between hay and wire, but a few encouraging words kept me growing.
Later, even discouraging words stiffened my resolve. Although my whiskers were long and black in some places and short, gray and wiry in others and some were calling me “Spot”, I persisted.
I could have ended the hassle in five minutes. I’d look in the mirror and ask, “What right have you to cause this dissension? Shave it off!”
But the hirsute guy would look out at me and say, “Not by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin!”
Imagine That 