Facial Hair Through the Ages

A beard’s the natural state of a man. The razor and scissors are tools of highly developed civilization. Cutting one’s facial hair is a relatively new phenomenon. In The Iliad, Homer refers to young and inexperienced men as “freshly bearded,”, that is, at the point where they can start to engage in combat or speak in assembly. Though Homer generally calls the Greeks “shaggy” or “long-haired,” his fixed epithets for older men don’t reference beard growth. For example, “Odysseus, of many turns,” meaning cunning. In classic Greek statuary, Odysseus is usually depicted with a beard, however. Beards were taken for granted.

I recently grew a beard. I did so in response to a suggestion from my son that it’d make me appear more reassuring. I can’t say if it has that effect on everyone, but it has upon him. It’s true that beards, particularly those of “older men” like me, which are gray and white, can create a certain ambiance. Beards take the edge off one’s appearance; they round out the face. Characters in films are like that. Consider the bearded secondary characters, called the “old timers” in a Western Saloon scene. They’re always chuckling and saying “shucks,” talking about the big storm back in ‘37 and giving sage advice. The feeling of assurance may arise because they offer proof that a person can survive the vicissitudes of life and finally reach a position of philosophical repose.

Beards of the stylish and sculpted variety don’t have the same effect. They’re aggressive, a forced masculinity combined with a strange aspect of almost feminine primping, signs of Dandyism. The philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer felt this way, going so far as to recommend special police to forcibly shave men on the street. He thought beards were conscious assertions of masculinity, meant to clearly separate oneself from women, etc. Oddly, he had massive sideburns, of the full-blown “mutton-chop” variety. This is a contradiction, but why quibble philosophical definitions with the master of pessimism?

When I was younger, I only once grew a full beard. It was a solid dark brown color, and I didn’t feel comfortable. It seemed mildly obscene, putting my lips in what I felt was an almost pornographic frame. It lasted less than a month. One of the reasons I shaved was that I felt like it hid me from the world; it was a wall from which I peeked out from behind. Now that I’ve grown a beard and have accepted it as normal, it leads me to wonder if I’m finally hiding from the world.

I have two beard-related memories. One was a comedy sketch by George Carlin. At one point, he focuses on the words used to describe facial hair, specifically the difference between beard and whiskers. 

I also recall when I was a child my mother complaining that it was unfair that men, when they get older, can grow a beard to hide the effects of aging, for example, a double chin, whereas women must directly face the world. That, like all human morality and customs is changing. Cosmetic surgery has become the norm for a large segment of the population. Also, with the right combination of hormone treatments, any woman can now have a long flowing beard. Men can have breasts, so why not? When I was younger these types of variations were all reserved for carnival side-shows but now are slowly making their way into daily life. Attractions like “The Bearded Lady,” “He or She?”, i.e. hermaphrodites, “The Tattooed Wonder,” and “The Fattest Man on Earth” are no longer worthy of special notice. Recognizing a difference, one risks legal action or social ostracism.

Beards, the fuller gray beards of older men, also have the effect of creating a greater focus on the eyes. Consider Coleridge-Taylor’s hoary Ancient Mariner:

“And now the Wedding-Guest stood still,
For he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?’”

When one speaks to a bearded man, one addresses not just the man but the beard as well. This can be used to great effect if one’s conscious of it. I knew an older, fully-bearded poet in Venice, California who’s mastered this technique. In response to any difficult question, he’d tilt his head back, placing his beard in full view and give a piercing stare, fixing his interlocutor like a cobra hypnotizing its prey. He felt that this act transcended all arguments, entering the metaphysical realm, suggesting that to have merely asked the question revealed a lack of necessary knowledge.