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Since the dawn of time, beards and facial hair in general have been a status symbol of those men most deserving of respect. From Moses to Abraham Lincoln to yours truly, beards have always been the most fashionable accessory for men of import, style and grace.
I’ve been sporting some manner of facial hair since I hit age 13 and started to sprout these wonderful whiskers. In the beginning, I wandered alone in a sea of my clean-shaven peers. At first I thought my fascination with five o’ clock shadows, beards, goatees, fu manchus, handlebars, sideburns and soul soul patches was abnormal. But as time went on, I found myself in the pleasant company of my bearded brethren, safe in the knowledge that we had a fail-safe icon of masculinity, wisdom and respect firmly attached to our faces.
I’ve gone through many stages en route to my arrival at my current fully formed beard. When I first set out on this journey, I wanted nothing more than to boldly wear a beautiful Scott Ian-style goatee – long chin hairs, no mustache. Try as I might, I was never able to achieve that level of thrashtastic glory. Dejected, I gave up and tried the more conservative, run-of-the-mill goatee. It wasn’t for me. I hated looking like a country music star. I accepted defeat and shaved.
That’s the glory of facial hair. It’s a free, renewable way to change the impression you make on people. A full ZZ Top, prophet-style beard makes a louder statement than any expensive Armani suit or full body tattoo could ever hope to. It is important to know that although all styles of facial hair make a statement, there is one curiously popular form that makes an awful, horrible statement, and should be avoided at all costs: The chinstrap.
After the utter failure of my goatee endeavor, I went through a three- or four-year beard period I affectionately called “The Mennonite,” so named as a result of how often I would be asked by strangers whether or not I belonged to the peaceful denomination of Anabaptists. Essentially, it was a full beard, sans mustache, soul patch and neck beard. I shaved the lowest parts of my neck, the highest parts of my cheeks and my mustache. The Mennonite served me well, but when I decided also to sport a shaved head, things became weird. I needed a change, and I was ready to take the final leap. I was ready for a full beard.
At first glance, it would seem like the full beard is the easiest style to go with, but on the contrary, it takes far more to figure out how to make sure you’re wearing the beard – and not the other way around – than you would think. It takes effort to work with scissors and clippers to figure out exactly the right length.
You can’t afford to get it wrong. Too short sends the message that you don’t have the nerve to really let go, that you have something to prove and aren’t comfortable with bringing your beard into the bright lights of society. To go too long shows you have a problem with excess. I’ve erred on both sides, but am happy to have arrived where I am today.
If you’re a woman who is seduced by the false beauty of baby-faced Hollywood icons, I encourage you to instead find yourself a man who follows in the tradition of Aristotle, Jim Henson and Chuck Norris. If you’re a man who has yet to do away with his Mach 3 and let that glorious beard beneath the surface see the light of day, I urge you to shake loose the shackles of the shaving industry and be what you were intended to be. You’ll be glad you did.
As a tribute to beards everywhere, I’ll be talking to bearded fellows over the course of this semester to answer the big questions and address the large issues pertinent to the ever changing and always interesting world of facial hair.
