The unbearable lightness of beards
It turns out that my beard is a barometer of my life, signaling tough times and the importance of self-care.
You can tell a lot about me by the state of my beard.
I've worn facial hair since my mid-teens, ever since my maths teacher commented on my "bum fluff moustache" when I was 14 and struggling to establish myself as a cool, stylish young man (his comments didn't help). My dad claims to have been "born with his moustache", so I'm from a long line of hirsute gentlemen. I remember bouncers waving me into bars and clubs in my late teens while my friends were being asked for ID, saying "he's got a beard, let him in".
I've only shaved it all off a handful of times, and none of them have been great occasions:
The ill-judged "monk" graduation restyle
It's 2008 and I've just started dating the love of my life, and will imminently graduate university. For unknown reasons, I decide that now is the time to shave off my moustache but keep the sideburns and beard, leaving me with a chinstrap-style collection of hair more akin to a 17th century monk than a 21 year old English graduate. This decision survives in all the photos of my graduation day, immortalised forever.
The meeting-the-CEO accident
As a precocious youth in my dream job, I pitched an innovation project called "doing cool shit" (yes, I'm sorry) while working at the Guardian. This somehow ended up with me presenting it to the CEO, and on the morning of the big day, I ran a bath and got my electric shaver ready to trim my beard down to something more professional-looking. You can see where this is going.
I picked up the shaver, not realising I hadn't added the blade guard cover, and buzzed a deep strip out of my sideburn. Realising what I'd done, I cursed and put the shaver back on the side of the bath to examine the damage to my beard. Predictably and hilariously, I instantly knocked it into the water. I now had one missing sideburn and no means of thinning out the other to match.
I valiantly attempted to normalise my inconsistent beard using a razor, and tried to keep only one side of my face exposed to the CEO during the meeting. I don't think "doing cool shit" went much further, thankfully.
The "Decembeard" revolution
In late 2013, someone persuaded me to enter a charity beard-growing contest. "I already have a beard!", I replied, confused. It turned out you had to start off clean-shaven. Up for a change of face, I went along with this with gusto. By the time we reached bedtime, Maddy wouldn't let me get into bed unless I turned the lights off first. Unhappy at not recognising me without my customary facial follicles, she remained cold and aloof until enough stubble had regrown to remind her it was me.
The beard barometer
I've had a tough couple of weeks recently: sickness, poorly kids and challenging times at work. I looked in the mirror a few days ago and realised something: the longer the hair on my face, the worse I'm doing.
I try to keep my actual beard in a reasonably groomed state, but the hair on my cheeks and neck is where you'll be able to tell how things are going. If I've left it for a week and it's visible on video calls at work, I've realised this means I've neglected self-care and am not very happy.
It only takes half an hour to shave (I'm a devotee of the double-edge razor which means it takes a bit longer, but it's way better than Gillette and co – give one a try, fellow facial hair havers) but there are times when things are so busy that I don't allow myself this luxury. I look in the mirror and feel rough when I see the spiky hairs poking back at me, and correspondingly, when I've made some time to sit down with my fancy Italian soap, badger-hair brush, and fresh razor blade and water: suddenly I'm a new man.
Having realised this, I'm trying now to optimise it: spot the signs of unwanted beard growth and stop them in their tracks. It's nice to have an early warning system when things aren't going so well for me – I just sometimes wish it wasn't literally growing out of my face.
Mini feels this week
Keeping it in the family
I found out a week ago that a distant family member has been jailed for almost two decades for a drug-related crime. It's someone I haven't seen for a period nearly as long as his prison sentence, but I'm sad for his immediate family and everyone involved. It's forced me to reflect on our shared origins and wonder about the different paths we took that led us to our respective destinations at the time of writing. So much can hinge on so little, and bad decisions made at difficult times can be instructive. Really it made me conclude that as challenging as my own problems might feel in the heat of the moment, I really have nothing to complain about.