The Beard Effect

I grew a beard by accident.

This is the only respectable way to grow one. Any man who announces his intention to grow a beard is already on the defensive, like a fellow who tells you he’s about to become interesting.

A beard should arrive quietly, the way opinions do when you’re not paying attention.

Until about a month ago, my face was bare, honest, and—judging by the expressions of others—apparently in need of supervision.

People spoke to me carefully. Clerks explained obvious things. Strangers smiled kindly, the way one does at a horse that has seen better barns.

There is photographic evidence of this period.

In the photograph, I am standing quite happily beside a crow. A real crow. A solid, respectable bird with alert eyes and a professional attitude. The crow is close enough to be considered a companion. I am clean-shaven, approachable, and—by all available evidence—entirely uninteresting.

The public response was muted.

No one stopped. No one asked questions. No one gathered. Apparently, an older man standing next to a crow does not merit curiosity. This surprised me. I had assumed the crow would help. It did not. The crow attracted far less interest than a parking meter.

Then the beard appeared.

I assumed it would finish me off. I expected to look older, frailer, possibly retired against my will. Instead, something alarming happened: I felt younger. Worse, other people treated me as if I were younger, too—by about thirty years, judging from the tone of voice.

They didn’t speak louder. They didn’t slow down. They chatted.

This was deeply suspicious.

A beard, it turns out, does not add years. It subtracts evaluation. A clean-shaven older man invites inspection. A bearded man discourages it. The beard creates interference, like weather on a radio signal. People stop calculating your age and start wondering what you’ve seen.

White hair alone says, “Be careful with me.”
White hair plus a beard says, “I’ve already been careful.”

Before the beard, younger people behaved toward me with an enthusiasm bordering on panic. On buses and trains they would leap from their seats, sometimes urgently, sometimes violently, insisting that I sit.

Occasionally they would assist me into the seat as if I were a reluctant piece of furniture. Apologies were offered. Explanations were made. I was assured it was no trouble at all. The implication was that if I remained standing much longer, I might legally expire.

The crow, during this period, offered no assistance whatsoever.

Then the beard arrived, and the situation reversed itself.

Now I find myself seated while older people stand nearby, fixing me with looks that suggest I am violating a sacred transportation code. Their expressions imply that if I do not surrender my seat promptly, I may be struck with a handbag, cane, or some previously unseen heavy object, and possibly ejected from the conveyance altogether.

I nearly always offer my seat. I have learned that staring them down is unwise.

The beard, it seems, has promoted me from assisted passenger to morally responsible adult. This is progress, though it carries risks. It also raises questions about the crow, who has yet to enjoy a similar elevation in status.

A beard also implies intention. Wrinkles merely happen. A beard is a decision. It tells the world that you are still making choices, not just maintaining the equipment. Youth, contrary to popular advertising, has nothing to do with smooth skin. Youth is agency.

People respond to that.

Since growing the beard, strangers speak to me as if I might know something. This is new. Before, they were polite. Now they are curious. Courtesy ends quickly. Curiosity lingers. It asks questions. It invites stories.

A beard turns age into narrative.

Lines on a face are data. A beard is prose.

I had assumed the beard would say, “I am older.”
Instead, it says, “I am finished apologizing.”

So I will keep it, at least for now. The crow, I regret to report, has not written, called, or acknowledged the beard’s success. But then, the crow never promised anything.

Mark Twain once observed that age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.

A beard, it seems, helps with the minding.