Wednesday March 5, 2008
Beard heaven, beard hell
I love Peter Aspden’s article in FT Weekend on the social struggles of wearing a beard.
Like him, when I was a boy visiting relatives in the southern Mediterranean (in his case Greece, in my case Cyprus) I would be scratched and sandpapered by the chins of older men – though in my case, I was more afraid of the cheek-tweaking inflicted by the women.
Like him, I woke up one morning recently and decided I couldn’t face shaving any more. I believe I might also have used the phrase “quotidian act of emasculation” to describe the deed, though in my case, being freelance, shaving was never particularly quotidian. But emasculating, yes.
Like him, I am a follower of the Orthodox faith and I have always admired the Byzantine look, though I have to say I have never thought it mournful. I think it is bold. Perhaps it is both.
Like him, after my beard grew, I had my bluff called by a fellow journalist. In his case, the FT beauty editor told him he looked like the shoe bomber. In my case, an editor on the Guardian website told me I looked like … the shoe bomber.
The only difference here is a question of degree – it’s a measure of just how far the pendulum has swung against beards that you can be mocked for having one by a Guardianista.
Reading Peter Aspden’s article, it becomes clear that, appropriately enough for the business-minded FT, it was the remarks of his colleagues that swayed him back to the path of smoothness. A dismissive shot from an editor is all it takes for him to fear that bearded men are old, irrelevant, not career-driven – and so he shaves.
This is where our paths diverge.
In my case, being a freelance, it was my nearest and dearest – family, girlfriend, close friends, followers of the Orthodox faith among them – who kept up the campaign of insults. “Haven’t you shaved that effing beard off, yet?” said Dad, every time I met him, conveniently forgetting his own beard experience of the 80s. My girlfriend waged a war against it, threatening me with a complex series of blackmails and underhand bribes. Worst of all, it became a topic of conversation everywhere I went, as if I was making a point. “For heaven’s sake,” I wanted to shout, “it’s only a bloody beard.”
In the end, after about a year, I got drunk and shaved it off on a whim. I walked out of the pub I was in, went down to Boots, bought a razor and some foam, returned to selfsame pub, locked myself in the bathroom, and started hacking away.
There was a slight hitch when I realised there was no hot water, but I am a resourceful soul – and I ordered a cup of coffee to do the job with instead.
Quite what the patrons of the establishment thought seeing a man going into the toilet with a beard and a cup of coffee, and coming out clean-shaven and carrying an empty mug, I hesitate to think.
But you know what? Like Peter Aspden, I did get a few people telling me I looked younger without the beard. But I still looked in the mirror and saw an older man, a man who had had the beard and come out the other side.
And I’ll never say never again. I may have admitted defeat once, but I’d like to think there is a Byzantine in me yet.
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