On Bearding, Fashion, and Exclusion

I had a terrible thought this morning. I was reading the comments on a really great article about the double-standard faced by "people of colour" with beards versus white guys with beards (read here), and an astute commenter pointed out that viewing beards as a sign of masculinity is "a racist trap." As the founder and president of the Derby City Whisker Club, whose mission includes "the whiskerfication of the masculine image in the popular conscious," I suddenly felt that maybe I was being exclusionary, possibly even racist. Was I, by "promoting beardliness amongst men," stripping men who can't grow beards, whether due to ethnicity or other genetic factors, of their manhood or masculinity?

To work towards an answer and satisfy my conscience, I had to think about my past--something that, more as a habit than a rule, I don't really do. I grew my first full beard during my freshman year of college. I was 18, it was 2000 or 2001. For the next few years, I played around with various facial hair styles before committing fully to the full beard around 2004.

Do you remember 2004? At the time, "metrosexual" and "manscaping" were the buzzwords. "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" was winning Emmy awards. I lived in New York City, I was 22 years old, and I was everything the media told me men shouldn't be. I'm short, I'm not slender even when I'm in shape (which happened once, I think around 2002), and I have hair all over. I mean all over. Manscaping? Please. I'd need a four-man crew and industrial equipment. So, screw it. I grew a giant beard. In your face, fashion. Take your "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" and shove it.

So there I was, young, dumb, and full of, uh, hopes and dreams, in the greatest metropolis in the world, and I couldn't get a date to save my life. I was doing everything wrong. Sure, I played in a band, but we played loud, slow, ugly music that only other loud, slow, ugly, hairy dudes wanted to hear. And I did my thing. I owned it. I was louder, slower, uglier, hairier. Sure, I had a few girlfriends despite all that, because I am, after all, a pretty charming dude, but they griped about my long beard and my long hair, told me they "wanted to see my face."

"This is my face," I reminded them. "It goes down to here."

And so, for the next ten years, I endured knowing that most women assumed I was dirty at first glance. I endured being mocked as a leprechaun or garden gnome. I smiled politely when strangers told me I looked like Bin Laden or asked me if it itched, just like I smiled politely when other misfits and weirdos congratulated me on how "epic" the hair on my face was. I'm not a guy who likes attention, especially from strangers. I swear I wasn't trying to be some freak or oddity. I just like my beard. For me. When I look in the mirror, it makes me not want to punch that dude in the face. So I smile politely.

And all that time, I knew that the pendulum of fashion would swing my way soon enough. Metrosexual would give way to "retrosexual." Men who were manly would be attractive again, and this shaggy dog would have his day. Or at least maybe people wouldn't stare at me so much or ask me about my religion or personal grooming habits, as though that's any business of theirs. All of this was in the back of my mind when I founded the Derby City Whisker Club and when I wrote that mission statement: To promote beardliness and brotherhood amongst men and the whiskerfication of the masculine image in the popular conscious.

It would seem now that the pendulum has swung. Other men, and women, have figured out that a man can have a beard and still be well-groomed. No one's using the term retrosexual, thankfully, but a clear return is being made to traditional markers of masculinity. Just in time, too. I'm 31, a married father and teacher who cares less than I ever thought possible about being cool or edgy or hip or even sexy. And suddenly I'm concerned that I'm part of a growing bandwagon that might be marginalizing or emasculating some members of the male population.

So, to the tall, skinny guy who can't grow a beard and might feel less manly next to my effluence of face pubes, I have this to say: f#@k you. Get over it. Find your own manliness and own it like I did. Then come find me, stick it in my face, and say, "F#@k you too, little man." Then we can shake hands like people who are confident in themselves and ignore all the trappings of socially constructed gender roles or some such.

Most importantly, don't ever, ever, let anyone else tell you that you're not who you should be or that you're not a man because of some arbitrary bulls#!t that has absolutely no real-world, applicable value. Because the pendulum's gonna swing again, because it always does and always will, and the truest mark of a man, or a woman, is staying who you are no matter what this decade's "Queer Eye" tells you you should be.

You know what I can do because I have a beard? Nothing. You know what I can't do because I'm short? Nothing. So as I wrote when I originally shared the above-referenced article, "Love all beards, respect all people, and let yourself be guided by your better judgment, not manufactured fear or feelings of difference." Mass media is designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Rise above it and claim your personhood.