The beard, or how I betrayed my father, school and common sense
I’m thirty-six years old, with a thick, well-groomed beard in a style that finally represents me, and the realisation that, if I’d had the guts to say no to my father, I would have spared myself at least ten years of existential suffering. But no, I chose to obey, to shave, and to hate every second of that daily torture. Because, as we all know, adolescence is a marvellous time when you’d rather suffer in silence than admit you’re right.
My beard is a story of love and hate, a Greek tragedy in which I am both the hero and the villain, and the razor is the chorus commenting on my every move with an ‘I told you so’.
I still vividly remember that first hair. It was a spring morning, or perhaps autumn, or maybe it was just another day like any other, when I was brushing my teeth in the hope that my life would change. And yet, there it was: a hair. A single, measly hair on my chin, sprouting like a lonely tree in a desert of smooth skin. To me, that hair was proof that I was becoming a man. To my father, it was proof that I was turning into a "tramp".
But deep down, a sense of rebellion was growing. Every time I looked in the mirror at my smooth-shaven face, I felt empty. As if I’d just sold my soul to the devil in exchange for a “well done, that’s better”.
And then came the day of liberation. I was twenty-six, and my existential laziness saved my life. One morning I woke up, looked at my razor and thought: “Not today. I can’t be bothered”. And so, I stopped shaving.
At first, my beard was a disaster. It looked as if a drunken beaver had decided to build a nest on my face. It was messy, asymmetrical, and full of gaps, just like my self-esteem at eighteen. It grew in all directions, as if every hair had a broken compass and a mind of its own. But I didn’t shave. And with every passing day, that beard became a little more mine.
Then I bought a trimmer. The trimmer, for those who don’t know, is shaving purgatory: it’s not a proper shave, but it’s not a no-shave either. It’s a tool for men who have too many choices and no certainty. You use it and think: “Maybe this is right? Maybe I look good like this?”. But you never know. Never.
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I’ve tried everything: sideburns (which made me look like a member of a 90s boy band), a goatee (which made me look like a member of the Sicilian Mafia), a horseshoe beard (which made me look like a failed pirate). I spent months trying to work out what shape to give it, battling with the scissors, cursing fate for giving me a beard that grew in all sorts of random directions.
And then, the revelation. One day, whilst looking at myself in the mirror with a beard that finally looked like something deliberately well-groomed, I realised that I’d found my style. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t symmetrical. But it was thick, well-defined, and above all, mine. And, for the first time, I felt strong.
Now, at thirty-six, I’m happy and bearded. My beard is well-groomed, thick and has a shape I’ve learnt to love, and which, surprisingly, has proved to be a more effective weapon of seduction than any perfume or designer suit. And every time I look in the mirror, I think: “If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have grown this beard at fourteen, I’d have told my father, school and the whole world to get lost, and I’d have lived happily and bearded”.
Because, for me, a beard isn’t just facial hair. It’s freedom. It’s rebellion. It’s the secret weapon I’ve always had, but didn’t know I possessed. It’s my way of telling the world: “Here I am. Take me or leave me.”
And now that I’ve got it, I wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world. Not even if my dad threatened me with a razor. Not even if the school kicked me out. Not even if the whole world told me I looked like a tramp.
Because, in the end, a beard is like life: at first it’s a mess, then you learn to shape it, and eventually you realise that it was exactly what you needed. And if you’re struggling with yours too, don’t give up. One day, you’ll find your own style too. And, trust me, it’ll be brilliant.
P.S. If you ever happen to see me without a beard, that’s not me. It’s my evil twin, or a deepfake, or a recurring dream in which my dad has finally got the better of me. As for me, I’ll never betray my beard again. And if you want my advice: grow a beard. It could be the weapon of seduction you never knew you had.