Over Thanksgiving I thought about growing a beard, as I often do on vacations to which my Gillette Sensor is not invited, but I wussed out and nixed it this morning. This guy I work with, who’s my age and also from Ohio, decided to go full-force and arrived today clad in a five-day scruff that caused a mild stir. For him it may have been mark of freedom; he recently joined our company after a multiyear career in politics, a profession for which facial hair hasn’t been kosher since Lincoln, and even he may have sold poisoned milk to schoolchildren. Sideburns recall malaised memories of Carter while moustaches have concealed career-warping secrets from G. Gordon Liddy through Bernie Kerik. Full beards are reserved for the lowest depths of political misery—2001-edition Al Gore, anyone?
Free from such associations and aspirations, you’d think a beard on someone who fancies himself a writer would be only appropriate, as the profession in general agrees that a facial bloom large enough to house a family of starlings is next to godliness.
With me it’s more an issue of aesthetics. Know that my facial hair is red for some reason and would therefore grow in like this guy’s, contrasting vibrantly with my thinning blonde top. I could go with the shaved-head/full-beard combo but then strangers on the street would step aside, presuming I’m on my way to clear-cut a forest or suplex a masked villain. Maintenance would be an issue; I wouldn’t be able to let a beard rage Chia Pet style, lest I become too mountain-man. Then there’s the eternal Lady Factor to consider: facial hair either inspires growls of primal passion or women would just as soon a guy tape a bunch of Brillo Pads to his face.
I don’t know; what do you think? Bearded Jason: hot or not? Christmas vacation is coming soon, another ripe opportunity to bust out that beard.