Jason M. Jones

So maybe “gentleman” is taking it a bit far, but I’m one of those guys. We’ve all met them. My age is hard to pin down because I’ve always looked older than I am. Part of the reason for this is premature gray. The whitish strands started appearing in the later half of high school and haven’t stopped since. The other is that I’m hairy, and ever since I could grow a beard, I’ve worn facial hair of one type of another. Today, as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, engaged in my bimonthly trim, I found myself reflecting on this. There are, of course, advantages to having a beard. When I lived in West Philly, I believe it protected me. After all, when you’re six two and look like a Wookiee, it tends to dissuade potential muggers who’d rather look for an easier mark (I’m basing this on the fact that many of my friends who live out there and aren’t as tall or hairy as me have mugging tales). Then again, at a time when every hipster in the world wants to look like I naturally look on a day-to-day basis, it opens me up to accusations of following trends. In any case, my face is generally cloaked in a beard, the thickness of which depends on how close I am to a trim. The timing of which depends on a variety of factors including but not limited to the availability of a half-hour window of time to trim it, my mood, and simple vanity. But I often decide it’s time when the mustache starts tickling my nose and I’m wearing more mustard on the sides of my mouth than I’ve ingested after consuming a soft pretzel. Nowadays the matter becomes a bit more pressing, since my full neck and a good portion of my chin has gone gray, and a shaggy face adds five to ten years.

I don’t remember my first time shaving, but I do remember spotting my first facial hairs. I was sitting in my dad’s minivan looking at my reflection in the side mirror when I noticed two longish hairs sprouting from the side of my neck. I was fourteen, and I have to admit they embarrassed me. But not quite as much as my mom remarking, “I guess we’ll have to get you a razor.”  She wasn’t being condescending, but that’s what I heard: condescension. “Look at my little man, all grown up!” During high school, I’d known boys who cultivated the peach fuzz on their upper lips and called it a mustache even when anyone standing farther than a foot away wouldn’t see anything. One of my younger sister’s younger friends could only grow sideburns and a thin strip along the line of his jaw, and I can’t remember his name but that’s probably because I referred to him as Chinstrap (this was when I had reached a full-bearded state and could make fun of others’ inability to cultivate—man, what a jerk I was/still am?). Maybe the reason I wasn’t like Sir Peach Fuzz or Chinstraps-a-lot, however, was that when I spotted my first facial hairs, I already had a few grays up on top, people were already commenting on how much older I looked, and I didn’t want to rush headlong into adulthood. I didn’t want to shave all the time.

For I abhor the act: shaving. I’ve never liked it and never will. Especially taking it all the way down to skin and going baby-faced again. For one thing, I’m lazy about personal grooming habits. With so many other things to do in the day, why take the time? For another, I get hair everywhere when I do it and end up having to clean the entire bathroom (and it’s not that I never clean the bathroom; I just don’t want to have to do it every day, which is what an everyday shave would require). But the main reason, the most important reason of all, is that whenever I’m finished shaving—every time—my neck looks like a used tampon. It doesn’t matter how careful I am or if I use warm water and skin gel. I’ve tried over the years using my wife’s “Just for Ladies” shaving cream. It doesn’t matter. My skin is sensitive and I often cut myself. Then, after the blood has been washed away in the shower, my neck breaks out in large splotchy red rashes, and no brand of aftershave or lotion I’ve tried has managed to stave this off.

Can you see why I choose to remain bearded?

If anything, I prefer to trim it with clippers. And even with clippers, I still somehow manage to cut myself. But the cuts are fewer. And the rash doesn’t appear. I trim it back for occasions—weddings, family gatherings, holiday parties, important meetings in the office. And I think it looks good. Naturally, I’m also beating back the bushes that are my eyebrows, which slowly inch together in some kind of surreptitious continental drift, sprouting a few longer wiry hairs as if I need antennae. And yet, it doesn’t matter how methodical I am. I finish, put the clippers away, clean the sink and floor, take a shower, and when I come downstairs and show my wife—who prefers me with a closely groomed beard over either shaggy or clean-shaven—she inevitably points out one or two stray hairs that I missed.

I’ve often joked about letting it grow. Letting my neck hair connect to my chest hair as it seems to want to. Letting my eyebrows meet in the middle and make the sweet love they seem to yearn for. I’ll give up on the barber entirely, let the gray that now outnumber the black on top of my head go wild. When the full moon comes due, I’ll head out into the night and howl and scare the local children. I’ve often joked about this, but really, is it that much of a joke? Wouldn’t it be easier to give up? To let the jungle resume it’s rightful place on my face? In every joke, there’s truth, and there’s truth to this one. If I ever one day find myself in a position where I can afford to stop giving a damn, this is exactly what I’ll do.