I am a vain person. Let me admit that up front. I like seeing myself in pictures – I zoom in on myself in group shots – and I glance sideways at my reflection in the windows of parked cars. I like to think this is a normal level of vanity for the 21st century – as full of cameras, mirrors and cars as it is – but I guess you will be the judge of that. I’d imagine most people look at themselves first in group pictures, but the car window thing has always felt particularly sad.
My quarantine beard upped the ante. I had never gone past a few weeks of thick stubble. I had never been able to tug on my chin as bearded men do. Had never needed to trim the hairs from my upper lip, or lick yogurt from the corner of my mustache. All of a sudden I had this new accessory. A thick patch of hair I could see growing day by day on Webex meetings and Zoom calls: the goatee filling in, my cheek line becoming more defined, and my mustache slowly connecting with the rest of it.
I loved playing with it. Running my fingers through the hairs under my chin and scratching at my thick sideburns. Smoothing down my mustache with finger and thumb, like some greasy cowboy or bespectacled diplomat. I pictured myself months down the line, squeezing beer suds from my thick, lumberjack beard.
I was delusional. The beard emphasized qualities that I wanted to embody. It made me look older. It made me feel more carefree. When I got ready in the morning I felt rugged, like a coal miner or park ranger – anything other than a white collar worker slouching behind a dim laptop screen. I imagined myself throwing on a t-shirt and shorts, quickly scraping my beard into a presentable mass and going about my day as though my appearance didn’t matter. Anne can tell you the truth – I stood in front of the mirror for more, not less time, applying beard oils, combing loose hairs, and just being tickled by my own appearance.
Now the beard is gone. Note to those considering lopping off their beards: All relationships have their ups and downs. I wouldn’t break up with Anne after a fight, and you shouldn’t shave your beard after a particularly itchy day. These things happen. Humidity comes and goes. Hairs fall out of place. Remind yourself of the work you put in, and buckle down. Sleep it off.
A beard takes months to grow but minutes to shave off. Remind yourself of this before you clip it down to stubble, one Saturday night at 11pm. Remind yourself again before you lather up your cheeks and grab your razor, because once the decision is made there is no going back the next morning. Your baby face will be exposed.
What’s worse: You will expose that no one else cares one bit about your appearance. If you’re lucky you’ll get a cursory “you shaved.” Many won’t even notice. And thus you will be confronted with the harsh truth of your vanity (and the source of the word’s two meanings): It is an entirely futile pursuit.