I hadn’t seen my face in 25 years. That’s the last time I was without a beard.
I started to grow one as soon as I got out of the Army and got my first job in advertising. I was 24. I always looked young for my age, and I thought a beard would make me look older and more arty.
Of course, back then I didn’t have much facial hair, so I just looked like what I was, a kid trying to look older. I couldn’t grow a real beard. There just wasn’t enough hair on my cheeks. So I tried mustaches and (God help me) goatees. I shudder when I go to my mother’s house. There on the wall in the living room is a picture of me at my sister’s wedding at the height of my goateeness.
When I was 28, I got tired of my sparse face and shaved.
I remember coming home from work the evening after I took it all off. I was greeted by my son, Erik, who was 2. He came rushing to the door and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw this stranger in his house. He just stood frozen, and burst out crying.
He soon was joined by his 4-year-old brother, Mark, who, hearing all the commotion, had come to his younger brother’s rescue. Mark studied my face while Erik sobbed. I said something profound like “Mark, it’s me, Dad.” Mark looked some more and finally put his arm around Erik and said: “That’s OK, Erik. It’s really Dad.”
Erik wasn’t buying into this very quickly, but when he saw his brother survive a hug and a kiss from me, he reluctantly came over for a kiss of his own.
The beard stayed off for a few months, but I was determined to grow it back. I felt gypped. My father was cleanshaven, but had a very dense beard. Why didn’t I? I had heard that if you shave for a while, your beard is stimulated and it comes back stronger. Maybe this would happen to me.
I started to let it grow again. This time I was determined to let every single hair I had grow till my beard was as full as it was capable of being. Other guys had scraggly beards and they looked OK; why couldn’t I? Fortunately, I was a “creative guy” in an advertising agency, and it was perfectly acceptable. Actually, people were foolish enough to think you were more creative if you looked a little goofy. I looked a little goofy.
I thought about shaving my beard many times over the years. But it became so much a part of my identity that I was afraid of what would happen. Like Samson’s, my hair took on a power of its own. I grew it as a crutch as a young man, and that is exactly what it became.
Sometimes I would stand in front of the mirror and think about shaving, and I would hear my beard whisper in my ear, “Shave me off and people won’t think you are creative anymore,” or “Hey, buddy, you became successful because of me. Shave, and it might all go away.”
I used to tell myself, “When I’m 40 and start to look old, I’ll shave it off and look young again.” What a great trick. Of course, 40 came and went and the beard stayed. It stared at me in the mirror and taunted me. “Go ahead, I dare you,” it said. “Touch one hair and I will blow your whole cover.”
I threatened it a couple of times, but it always won. As I got older, I cut it shorter and shorter. I was finally using the shortest setting on my beard trimmer. If I stared in the mirror, I could almost make out the outline of my chin. I kept wondering what I really looked like under all that hair.
A while ago, I found a picture of myself as a 21-year-old college graduate. I stared longingly at that clean-shaven face. Maybe I’ll shave, I thought. My beard shouted back, “Cut me off, and I’ll show everyone what a weak chin you have.” I don’t have a weak chin, I thought; at least I didn’t when I was 21. “Oh, yeah?” my beard challenged me. “People are used to you with a beard; it will look weak even if it isn’t. How can you be CEO of an advertising agency with a weak chin?” My beard had me on the ropes.
What it didn’t realize is things were about to change.
About six months ago, I did something I never thought I would actually ever do.
I quit my job.
I had been in advertising my whole career, 29 years. I had risen up the ladder and eventually I wound up running an agency. I loved advertising. I got to do some very good work and was well paid for it.
I didn’t leave in a huff. I didn’t leave out of some desire to quit at some height in my career. (I’m not Michael Jordan; no one but me would even notice.) I left because I realized a whole lot of other people and things, including my beard, were running my life; I wasn’t. My beard’s days were numbered. It didn’t happen right away. There were lots of things to think about in my new life-things I hadn’t thought about since I was 21. It’s a great feeling, starting all over. It’s also a little scary.
I think that’s what my beard was counting on, but it had false hopes.
It happened about 5 o’clock one morning. The thought to shave had occurred to me a few days earlier, but my beard had been successful in stalling me for a while. This day was different. I got out of bed, made some coffee, walked into the bathroom and took it off.
My beard didn’t utter a whimper. I think it knew it was a lost cause.
When I finished, I was a bit stunned. It was one of the simpler acts in the world, but the change it had made in me was enormous. I couldn’t quite believe what I saw in the mirror. I just stared and smiled, and stared and smiled. I did have a chin. A nice one. I had cheeks and a mouth. I couldn’t get over my smile, or how expressive my face was. I could see a scar on the left side of my chin that I had gotten when I fell down as a kid. My face had character. It was Steve. I must have looked at myself for 15 minutes, then came back and looked again.
I went downstairs and got the picture of me when I was 21. I looked at the picture, then looked in the mirror, then back at the picture. There was no mistake. It was Steve, all right.
I had me back.
My son, Erik, now 27, was one of the first people to see the new/old me. He came over that night for a visit. I hadn’t told him what I had done.
He walked into my house, took one look at my face, and stopped dead in his tracks. He just looked at me and said, “Oh, my God, I’ve never seen you without a beard.” I said, “Yes, you have,” and told him the story.
Later that evening, after staring at me for a few hours, he told me he thought I looked like my father. Before going to bed that night, I got a picture of my dad and took it along with my face to the mirror. Erik was right; I had my dad’s mouth. It was a great feeling. My father has been dead for many years, and I felt like I had a piece of him back.
The reaction from friends has been fun to watch. They all stare and try not to act puzzled, while they figure why the heck I look so different. I don’t tell them. It’s too much fun watching them sweat it out. Invariably, they say something like, “You look so young. Did you lose weight?” Or “Gee, you look like one of your sons.”
I just smile and think, no, I’m not any younger, I haven’t lost weight, and I’m not one of my sons; it’s just little old me, sigh!
I’m not used to shaving. It’s harder than I remember. My face is very tender and my beard is coarser, but it feels just wonderful. I still stare and smile when I catch my reflection in a window or a mirror. I just hope no one is around to see me.
The other day I was brushing my teeth, and I heard this muffled voice cry out. “Hey, you can always grow me back, you know. You looked pretty good in a beard.” I just smiled and thought: Right. . . . Let me get back to you about that.
