My Friend The Beard

In our family, when a young man turns thirteen-years-old, he receives an electric razor from Grandma Albina. I remember when my older brother got his. I remember him plugging it in for the first time and methodically running the buzzing black box over his chin, his upper lip and the sideburns that didn’t grow past his earlobes. I couldn’t wait to join the ranks of manhood and annihilate the pesky hairs growing slowly but surely by the edge of my mouth and random spots on my chin.

And sure enough, on my thirteenth birthday, my grandmother gave me my very own Norelco electric razor, complete with a cleaning kit and a straight-edge-razor that flipped out for precise sideburn trimming.

I soon learned that shaving was definitely not the glorious introduction to manhood I thought it would be. The razor made a less than angelic noise. The hairs that I had - although few - were pulled fiercely from their roots by the cheap Rite Aid blades. No matter how hard I tried, neither the straight-edge-flip-out razor nor my intense concentration could produce even sideburns. And the whole experience left my face dry and irritated.

It was then that I knew I wanted a beard.

Now even though my desire was strong, I was unable to grow a beard at the age of thirteen. Thankfully, I was patient and I waited till the time was right. I didn’t want facial hair just for facial hair’s sake - I wanted a real, burly, Paul-Bunyon-Pancake-and-Maple-Syrup beard.

Finally, when I was eighteen, I arrived. All of the pieces came together. My sideburns extended down my cheeks and connected to the hair growing from my chin, my mustache filled out, ventured down the side of my mouth and met up with the soul-patch and goatee below. It felt something like conquering Mt. Everest, and even though I had done nothing but rely on time and favorable genes, I felt like I accomplished something great.

I have had a beard for about three years. In that time I have learned that a beard is much more than a collection of hair that happens to be located on desirable areas of my face - it is an identity.

Even though my university is small, there happens to be more than one Michael Miller. There are a few possible ways that a small community of students could fix the problems that arise from having multiple students with identical names. I could fix it by going by my middle name - I tried this and it didn’t stick. I could ask to be referred to by my Student ID Number, but most people, I would think, are not interested in reciting nine numbers whenever they want me to pass the ketchup. So, to most, I have become “the one with the beard,” or the “the hairy one.” This is despite the fact that the other Michael Miller is six foot seven, hundred-and-forty pounds, wears a size 15 shoe and could easily be referred to as “the lanky one,” or “the one that looks like Gumby.”

The beard separates me from the general shaven public. It supplies an easy identity for others.

During pick-up basketball games at the local gym, guys call me Jesus - as in, “Who’s got Jesus on defense” and “Nice shot, Jesus.” Some players who have reservations calling by the same name as their Lord and Savior decide to call me Moses or Noah. But, no one ever asks my real name.

The beard can also connect me to others, especially among my bearded brethren. Recently, I rode the number 13 bus home from work downtown and sat down next to a man sporting a lengthy beard, a beard that put mine to shame in terms of length of girth. I noticed that he had random red hairs sprinkled among the dark brown, just like mine.

“Hey, do you know why you get those red hairs in there?” I said, worried he might be disturbed that a stranger would ask him such an odd question on the bus.

He looked at me, smiled, and said, “You know, I have no idea. I’ve wondered the same thing myself, but can’t come up with anything. Where is your beard from?”

“From?”

“Where is your family from?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know where my mother’s side is from, but my dad’s family comes from Yugoslavia. I figured that is where I got mine from.”

“My family is Jewish from the Mediterranean, so my beard has done a lot of traveling in the last four hundred years or so.”

For the remainder of the trip we talked like old golf buddies or fellow Woodstock attendees about how long we had been growing our beards and the best way to keep it clean; he told me about how his newborn son likes to bite it, and I told him that dogs like to do the same thing to me. I have always been timid about talking to strangers on the bus, but thanks to our beardly bond the man and I were able to find a solid board from which to spring a short-lived friendship.

Sadly though, the beard can also give people license to place me in box, and usually that box is labeled in big block letters: CREEPY. For instance, I am very white, as Caucasian as Jeff Van Gundy or Michael J. Fox, but for some reason people like to say that I look like a Middle-Eastern Jihadist. Some of my friends told me that I should shave before I go overseas just so I don’t get stopped and searched at airport security, so I won’t cause everyone on the plane an unnecessary amount of stress and so that I won’t have Homeland Security tapping my phones when I get back.