Over the last five years I have been called upon to write about beards on a number of occasions. This was partly because beards made a remarkable fashion transition in that time: becoming a surprisingly hip accessory, achieving momentary ubiquity, and then passing an ill-defined point commonly known as “peak beard”. These days facial hair is a popular post-career-reversal statement, a declaration that one has joined the ranks of men who no longer have to give a toss.
Mostly, I got asked to write about beards because I had a beard. “Can you do us 400 words about why Ed Miliband grew a beard?” editors would say. “You’ve got a beard, after all.” I never claimed any special insight because I didn’t see my beard as the result of some kind of intention. I just stood over the sink, razor in hand, and thought: have you got a bail hearing this morning? No? Then what are we doing here? After a couple of weeks of this, I found I had a beard.
Five years later, I still had one. And then, a couple of days ago, I got rid of it. I was visiting family in the US, and I thought it would please my Aunt Gladys, who hates all beards, particularly mine. She had just complained about it again when I borrowed a razor from my brother and sneaked away to shave it off before lunch.
Once I was before a mirror, I found it a surprisingly difficult decision to act upon. I suddenly realised I hadn’t seen the face behind the beard for five years. Had it grown pendulous jowls I didn’t know about? Or would it be strangely pale and unlined, a poor match for the rest of my head?
In the end it wasn’t so terrible. The top and bottom halves of my face still matched. If I was disappointed to discover that I wasn’t as good-looking as I remembered myself, I was much more upset when no one at the table – not even Aunt Gladys – noticed the beard was gone.
My neighbour’s window to the advertising world
I arrived back in London to a terrifying invoice totalling £2,580, VAT included. Fortunately, on closer inspection, it turned out not to be an invoice but a mere estimate for the supply and installation of a new timber sash bay window. Even more fortunately, it was for an address round the corner. But it wasn’t mistakenly delivered post. It was a leaflet: a neighbour’s detailed quotation presented as a way of drumming up business. “I hope you find this information of interest,” said an attached page.
Well, I do, sort of, but can this tactic possibly work? Never mind that it’s none of my business that my neighbour has gone for the standard architrave and the 4mm double glazing, and that I would be hiring a company whose idea of advertising is to post copies of my bill through every letterbox on the street. I’m just incredibly put off by that figure.
For all I know, two and a half grand is a perfectly fair price – I’ve never had my bay window refitted with hardwood sashes and six openable panels. It might be a competitive rate, or even an absolute bargain. But I got the shock of my life when I saw the number lying face up on the mat, and my relief that I don’t have to pay it is worth a lot more than a really nice window. I can’t believe this is a recognised advertising strategy. It’s like a payday loan company promoting itself by mailing you a list of all the stuff the bailiffs removed from next door.
The bare-faced cheek of it!
At the time of writing I’ve been home for several hours, and my wife still hasn’t noticed that I no longer have a beard. I might draw on a neck tattoo tomorrow and she if she notices that.
