Sunday 19 August 2012

The Pursuit of the Adolescent Beard


If I were King for a day and I could do whatever I wanted... I would probably be disappointed by the limited power of the monarchy in modern day Britain. But if I was to become King and with this change I gained some sort of sovereignty over the nation there would be one law I would wish to enact. “What is it David? Would you aim to create jobs in order to combat this country's staggering levels of unemployment?” Of course not, guess again. “Would you reform the tax system and make it impossible for the super-rich to avoid paying millions of pounds in tax?” Don't be ridiculous, I have no time for these petty scruples! For there is one issue closer to my heart than anything else in the world; one issue that makes my heart swell with passion and stirs great indignation within my soul, and if I could make one law in this country it would be this: you should only be allowed to try and grow a beard if you are able to attain full facial coverage.

I don't literally mean the whole face, forehead and all; I'm not that ambitious. I just mean the parts of the face where beard usually grows. The parts of the face which, if you were to lie down on your front and rest your head in your two hands, while looking upwards in a naïve and playful manner, it would be the part of your face covered by your two hands. Plus the upper lip too—that is also an important part of the beard situation.

If you do literally have full facial hair coverage—forehead and everything—then maybe overgrown but fashionable facial hair isn't for you, and you might want to shave that. On the plus side though, if you've got a forehead covered in hair then you essentially have fully customisable eyebrows. You can also combat the effects of ageing with a completely manageable hairline, so it's not all doom and gloom.

Growing up as a teenage boy among other teenage boy I encountered so many people trying to grow beards before their time. They would come into school with about twelve hairs on their faces; five around the left sideburn area, five around the right sideburn area and two inch-long hairs protruding from the chin.

“Have you noticed, David, I'm growing a beard?” they would say to me, audibly proud of their achievements. “Where's your beard? Can you not grow a beard? How ridiculous you look standing next to me and my beard,” they would gloat, while twisting both their chin hairs around their forefinger (the adolescent alternative to the classic beard-stroke manoeuvre).

My reply would always be the same: “No. Like you I've also grown twelve hairs on my face, but unlike you I didn't think my face needed to be adorned with pubes. Do you know who else has a beard like that? Have you seen that woman that walks up and down the Botley Road rifling through bins and collecting carrier bags? The one that shouts at you if you make eye-contact, with the questionable personal hygeine? The Bag Lady, that's right. You have the Bag Lady's beard.”

Then they would say, “wow David that's a pretty hurtful thing to say to your friend; you should try being nicer to people and then maybe everyone would like you a little bit more,” or some rubbish like that; I don't know I wouldn't be listening. “And anyway, even if I do have the Bag Lady's beard then you've said the word beard so it's still a beard.”

“No it's not. When a woman has twelve hairs on her face she has a beard; when a man has twelve hairs on his face he has to shave. That's a cutting edge observation about gendered societal responses to body hair for you there.”

“Thanks David, you are great.”

“Yeah, I suppose you're right.”

Where was I? Oh yes: don't grow a shit beard. If possible, go back in time and tell your sixteen-year-old self not to grow a shit beard.

Or, you know, do what you like. I probably won't say anything.

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