De-bearded

First published in Column 8, Sept 1993.  

Fooled into thinking I was good-looking - even handsome - by photographs more than a quarter of a century old, my wife and family had long nagged me to shave off my beard. I resisted the conspiracy to tame this full-blooded feature of masculinity.

However, while my wife was away overseas, I decided (quite unaffected by outside pressures), to see if she would know me at the airport if I met her beardless.

The weekend before she came home, I took scissors, along with a borrowed razor, (fully intending to return to my hairy state within a week), and shaving cream. Breathing deep into my diaphragm, I proceeded to dispense with the facial hair.

Excitement welled up as I embarked on a voyage of rediscovery. I hacked away with the scissors: a reasonable-looking character emerged. Hmm, not too bad.

Then I completed the job. And all those movies where someone's face changes before your eyes - usually for the worse - came back to haunt me.

The youth of the 25 year-old photos was gone. Double-chinned, a bejowelled, bothered and bewildered stranger appeared, like Rip Van Winkle after his lengthy slumber.

I could never confront the world like this. The beard must resume its groundcover as soon as I'd faced my wife.

Sunday morning at church. Every reaction possible. People recognizing me instantly - and laughing! Complementary people: my smile now seen in its fullest glory. Uncomplementary people - like myself - who couldn't wait for my face to go into hiding again. People who knew me but thought I'd changed my hairstyle. And those who didn't know me at all...!

"Mr Crowl," one bearded friend said, "I feel betrayed."

Subsequent meetings with friends and acquaintances convince me that people recognize other people in very individual ways. What else would account for such varied reactions?

On Monday, a shopkeeper and a librarian, people who know me only as a walking beard, recognized me without difficulty. Others recognized the glasses and squeezed-up eyes, but didn't register the loss of the lower part of my face. I feel like someone in those children's books where the top halves of the faces can be matched up with all manner of lower halves.

People say I look twenty years younger. This is odd, since they used to say before that I never looked my age. I must have plummeted back into adolescence. (Some say I look older. Good grief!)

As soon as I move away from my normal context, many people totally fail to recognize me. Anonymous, I melt into the crowd. I'm the victim of beardist remarks, from both men and women, as people's deep anti-beard emotions come out of the closet. All this on top of skin irritations, nicks, rashes, and the sting of aftershave.

Tuesday, my wife returned to Dunedin. At the airport, she screamed, laughed and cried - but avoided hysteria. I've been bearded for 22 years; longer than we've been married.

"I hate it!" she said, which was a relief - so do I. But that was her first reaction. Later she began to enjoy the smoothness of the face - and the smell of the aftershave. It was like having a new husband - at least in part.

I told her I've got plenty of smooth bits on my body that don't need to be razored - the palms of my hands, for instance, or the backs of my ears. If necessary, I can always douse these with aftershave.

The photo above is, at present, a remembrance of things past. Don't despair, fellow bearded ones: negotiations currently underway are hopeful of my naked face returning to its former glory.