to beard or not to beard

As a twenty-something with the face of a fourteen-year-old, it was difficult to be taken seriously in the business world. While working for a design firm, the installation crews I supervised did not like to take direction from "some young punk." So, in order to generate respect and be related to as an older, more competent professional, I had to do something about my appearance–hence, the beard.

When I was child, my Aunt Bobbie commented about the wide span between my mouth and nose. "That is a perfect place for a mustache," I recall her saying. And so, when the time required it and maturity made it possible, I obliged. A red beard has been a fixture of my face space for most of the past 15 years. It connected me somewhat to my beloved pioneer ancestry and was the distinguishing feature I used to describe myself when arranging blind date rendezvous. I even carried the rare and coveted "beard waiver" stamp of approval on my BYU student ID card. I had to unwhisker myself for a few semesters while participating in some travel-study programs, but because of my attachment to it, I persuaded a doctor to submit a request that I keep the fuzz. (It didn't hurt that he was an avid U of U fan, and thought the "no beard" rule was ridiculous. I have since repented of stretching the truth to have "mental health and professional well-being" considered to be "medical reasons.") It provided an air of confidence to a self-doubter, a sense of ruggedness to a city dweller, and to some degree helped to camouflage my self-consciousness about my lip deficiency and chubby boyish cheeks.

Until this morning.

After routinely revving up the beard trimmer in front of the morning mirror, somehow between the time I set the guide and when it came in contact with my unruly red stubble, it dialed down a few notches. Had I initiated the trim on either cheek, I could have fashioned the "close shave" into a trendy goatee for awhile. But the GQ gods must have still been sleeping at that hour, and the result was a reverse mohawk on my chin.

Although it served its purpose, helping me to look a little more grown up, over the past year or so I think the beard's maturing powers may have started to play against me. More than once well-intentioned matchmakers have slipped me phone numbers of single women a good fifteen years older than I am–thinking we were in the same age bracket. Don't get me wrong, I would love to be a grandfather, but I think I would like to work up to that...as well as another beard, someday.