The Beard

The beard is gone. Quite a task and one that has left a big hole in my life. It seemed that I changed with every millimetre of hair that grew on my face. I once believed that having a beard was the one thing missing. Silly though it may sound, I had an empty feeling, and struggled to find ways to fill it. For a short time the beard worked its magic, I was free and most definitely easy with the words I wrote. However many other things suffered because of the beard. But I might as well start at the begging.

The process of growing it had taken me the best part of ten years. It started when I was young and culminated while I was travelling. I had always wanted one but puberty had been a slow arrival for me and was denied the privilege of good facial hair until I was 25. The torture as I watched my friends’ groom, chop and clip their perfectly kept facial hair was unbearable. Then the dark stubble appeared. I kept shaving. I heard once that the more one shaved the quicker hair would grow back. I had been shaving aggressively for 8 years and it finally it seemed there was a pay off.

This gave me confidence. I was not bad looking, had always been average with women but felt I had something missing. My writing, if you can call it that was poor, and no one paid any heed to it. My skills in other areas were no different to anyone else. I needed something and now I had it. I’d been planning on travelling for a long time and it seemed a perfect time to get away. Starting in France I would chase the sun east through to Asia. I booked, said my goodbyes and left. The people I was bidding goodbye to didn’t know I was actually saying goodbye to my average self. Upon my glorious return I would be sporting the best facial hair around.

My travels taught me a lot about life, the way people work and I started to write pages upon pages a day. No subject was beyond my reach, philosophy (of which I wrote several thesis’ on) religion and politics were all paints at the tip of my brush. The process of growing the beard was something that after time I forgot. It no longer seemed to matter that I had a bushy beard, it was far more important the things I was getting down onto paper. I was genuinely of the faith that I could change the world with my ideas, and various people whom I met along the way were of the same belief. The minute any person begins to believe that they will have an important mark on the world a terrific burden of pressure comes with it. The things I was writing caused me to feel like Atlas astride two mountains with the whole world on my shoulders.

Before I realised it I had been away for three years and I looked like a wise hermit who had just come down from his cave to discover humanity. I had been sending all of my work back home while I was away but my rucksack was still brimming with pages. When I got off the plane I was greeted like a returning hero. Comments flew forth about my beard and the work I had been sending back. A local paper was there comparing me to Ghandi in my quest to discover the depths of humanity and save the world from the grip of capitalism, war and strife. I thought all of this was a bit far fetched. Yes, what I was writing was of importance but Ghandi, everyone seemed to be a little over excited. Of course my beard helped me to look worldly and intelligent. Almost like it was a statement of difference in itself.

My works were published by the volume. I was thrown up on a pedestal with the likes of Nietzsche, Plato and Erik Hoffer. All of these I didn’t necessarily agree with, but still, the notoriety was nice. Finally I was above average, exceptional even. Magazines made me pose in Dali Lama type poses, all emphasising my beard as the icon of my knowledge.

As time went by the meetings, hearing and in some cases audiences became tiresome. People stopped seeing me. I was just potential salvation, cure to the ills of this world, and I feel in most cases, a clever man with a big beard. I couldn’t escape. I stopped talking to women for fear of what the tabloids would say. I had black out curtains on my bathroom windows so I could shit in peace (if these people actually believed I used the toilet at all). My every action carried with it the world’s conscience. I was tired. Beaten into submission. What could I do, Time magazine had just placed my face second most notable image, behind Bob Dylan and in front of Jesus Christ (something my mother would have loved). I decided that travels had cured my emptiness before, it could do it again. I went far, I found myself in Nepal, high in the mountains. The once celebrated hermit returned to his fictional habitat.

Right, I thought. I was away from everyone, but I sure as hell didn’t want to live up a mountain my whole life, so what can I do. It was then I caught the reflection of myself.

The Beard. Of course.

The thing I once searched for in my quest for deliverance would now deliver me. All of the images of my face were matted with thick black hair. Clean shaven and dyed hair, possibly contact lenses and I would be free. Maybe I could reinvent myself as a writer of pulp fiction, talk of whores, gangsters and rich living. I could even knock out a few worthless poems, easy to do and no real heart can go into something so short. It was decided.

The beard is gone. Quite a task and one that has left a big hole in my life. You see I did everything I said I would. Became a clean shaven man once more, dyed my hair to an auburn ginger colour that was at best neutral, my only lavish detail was green contact lenses as I had always wanted green eyes. I lived in America; a place I figure even an icon of our time could get lost in. A lot of my money, untraceable was still at my disposal so I was once more a writer. But I wasn’t. I couldn’t write a word. I could not create worlds of whores, gangsters and rich living. They were things I couldn’t connect with, even when I tried so hard to think my head hurt I couldn’t see anyone with a Tommy gun. My headaches got very bad, too much thinking. I went into the bathroom and took out some aspirin. When I looked back at myself I realised my folly.

With my beard gone, I was my average self again. No different to anyone else. I nearly broke down in tears. Everything had come full circle. I was back to where I started. Yes, I was a rich man, but I could tell no one about it, once more I was underappreciated. There was only one thing for it.

The Beard Is Back.