Who, in their right mind, grows a beard during the summer?
I do.
Well, let’s say it wasn't exactly the plan to sprout facial hair and let it grow unimpeded for more than a week. But that’s exactly what happened.
In summers past, when Alex and I would head to Scout camp, I would let my follicles run crazy. They were free to grow and form a scruffy coating on chin and jaw. That scruff, however, didn’t last the weekend upon our return home. I would shave it before going back to work and, especially, before kissing my wife.
There was no Scout camp this summer. Rather, I had taken off a week to help get the house ready for Alex’s open house. I figured it was easier to forego shaving for a few days and then revert to my clean-cut self for the open house.
The day of the open house was a blur of activity and by the time I was getting cleaned up I realized I didn’t have time to shave. Guests were arriving and I needed to be present to greet and meet friends, family, and other visitors.
Interesting enough, no one commented about the scruff on my face. Maybe they were being polite or just didn’t notice. I really don’t grow thick hair, so they may have mistaken what little appeared on my face for dirt.
By that point, I decided to wait until Sunday night or Monday morning to shave before I returned to work. I scuttled that plan when Rebecca came down with Covid and I decided to work from home a few days to tend to her.
Now, Rebecca has not been a fan of beards. During our nearly 30 years together, I have rarely sported facial hair. She has tolerated my whims to grow out my beard during camp, knowing I would shave before planting a kiss on her. I also remember some anemic attempts to grow a beard years before meeting Rebecca and deciding the facial covering wasn’t worth the effort.
In recent years, I’ve been fascinated by the beard trends. There were the Duck Dynasty beards, in which you could probably store camping gear, a hunting rifle and a duck or two in the expansive mass of hair that extended from ear to ear. Then, there were the beard planks that jutted from the chins of athletes, singers and other less hair-challenged guys. I swear they could use those beards to play ping pong.
Two weeks into by beard experiment, as I now call it, I have a decent salt and pepper appearance. It’s never going to fill in like the aforementioned beard styles, but I am pleased with its progress.
The true test is what Rebecca thinks of my follicle folly.
While isolating with Covid, Rebecca didn’t see me without a mask. When I felt comfortable removing the mask Thursday, I busied myself around the house until I heard her say, “You haven’t given me a kiss.”
I obliged but her reaction cast doubt on the longevity of the experiment.
“Ooooh scratchy,” she remarked. “If it doesn’t get softer, you may have to decide between me and the beard.”
Don’t worry, dear, I won’t forsake you for a beard. In the meantime, I am learning that taking care of a beard is a lot like caring of a pet. You have to feed (beard butter, beard oil) and groom (scissors or razers) your beard, something I may decide is too much work for so few hairs.
Anyway, if I can crack the code so my meager beard can thrive as a soft facial covering, I may decide to keep it and let it grow.
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