For the past 8 years I’ve grown a beard over the winter. I love my beard. Beards are manly. I put on my red flannel shirt and blue jeans and I’m like a miniature lumberjack. Last weekend I whipped out the chainsaw, fired that bad boy up, and cut down a tree. I epitomized manhood, climbing, cutting, I even yelled “Timber!!” a couple of times. I eventually had to stop because of the blister on my left hand, but for about 10 minutes I was the picture of virile masculinity.
I’m 46 years old now. I don’t usually notice my age. I feel young, but my beard tells a different story. There is more gray in it every single year. Do you know why hair turns gray? It’s because the pigment cells in the hair follicles are dying off. My graying beard is a metaphor for my gradual decline and eventual death. Sheesh.
Despite this reminder of my impending demise I still love my beard, and I refuse to color it or trim it. I figure real men don’t shape and prune. I work with some guys who have absolutely immaculately formed beards, but I wouldn’t ask them to fix my car, or roll a boulder across the yard, or whatever else it is that real men do.
My wife keeps asking me if she can trim the beard for me. I always say “Yes Dear,” then ask her how her day is going. Twenty minutes later she’s still talking and has forgotten about the beard. In this way I hope to grow it out to such a massive size that there is no turning back.
In addition to increasing my manliness, the beard is also a magnet for the ladies. It is becoming a topic of conversation wherever I go, with admiring compliments all around. My wife points out that most of the compliments come from women who are old enough to be my grandmother, but I’m not an ageist. Just last week I was complimented three times at WalMart. Technically it was the same person each time. She was a nice lady who had a sweet walker that has one of those fancy cupholders on it, but still, that’s three compliments more than I get at home, so I’ll take it.
Even my daughter has taken a stand against the beard. She seems embarrassed by it, which of course is all the more reason for me to fluff it out whenever her friends are around. Sometimes I’ll intentionally leave a bit of food in it, maybe a big ole cracker crumb or something, so when the kids notice it I can say, “I’m saving it for later.” That joke never gets old.
I’ll probably shave it sometime in March, as I usually do, but rest assured, come next November I’ll grow it again. Yes, the beard will be back, the added gray a testimony to another year of life well lived. I’ll wear those grays with pride.
