When the profane creature first appeared, it was so unassuming that we couldn’t know the gravity of its evil. How subtly and cleverly it infiltrated our home! But the madness hadn’t started yet.

“So… are you going to keep it?” asked Jessica.

I didn’t have an answer. Why was it necessary to commit one way or the other? I shrugged feebly.

As it continued to grow, I did give the newcomer its due evaluation. Closely studying it in the mirror, I stroked the critter’s fur with apprehension.

Why had I never owned a beard of my own before?

Should we keep it?

I decided to not do anything rash. Why make a decision that we might regret someday?

And so the creature was allowed to mature, fill in its scraggles, and gather strength. 

After only a few days, it began to display an unprecedented dignity—a kind of regal, wise, and musky caliber. 

I wasn’t the only one who noticed. In the streets and at work, people gave me a wide berth while gazing upon my wooly countenance. Strangers would break into a run just to hold a door open for me. While waiting to get a table at a restaurant with Jessica, a senior couple gave us their place in line. The old and venerable man, with a growth of majestic silver on his face, winked at me. 

Insupposable—I was being honored with a deference that’s usually reserved for a doctor, professor, or chainsaw carver.

I suddenly felt inspired to care for this creature that had been adopted with so much initial reluctance. I groomed, trimmed, and sculpted the bristles. I liberally poured on them oils steeped in the essence of the mighty Douglas fir and the august cedar. Time was appropriately spent studying, stroking, combing, oiling, massaging, and admiring the beard (in whichever house mirror happened to be the closest).

Of course, Jess grew annoyed at the attention that it was getting. She claimed that my relationship with my facial hair was obsequious (a word I’d never heard her use before). 

The beard bristled and glowed with anger at her insult. I said that she was being hypocritical: how many thousands of hours of her one and precious life had she spent on her hair?

We were at an impasse.

And then something happened that I thought would shift the balance in favor of the beard. 

At work, Eric stuck his excessively tan face into my office and, in a low and grave voice, called me into a meeting. I was nervous and short of breath all of a sudden. I soothed the beard, slowly stroking its chin hairs.

It was just the two of us in a conference room (well, the three of us). I grew even more concerned. The beard shivered.

Were we getting fired? We had put in all that extra time on the Trillium project and done some great work. This was going to be Eric’s thank you?

He looked at me with a cool smirk but did not say anything at first. Eric is always arrogantly confident, unbearably calm, and gratuitously dressed—careful not to let anything mar his masterful image. Some people are consumed by their vanity and that handsome beast had certainly devoured all of Eric.

His bleached teeth glinted at me suddenly, their paleness a shock next to the bronzing of too many hours inside tanning beds. But instead of the condescending sneer that I was accustomed to, I detected something completely novel in his smile: respect. And Eric told me that I was being promoted. Our boss was quite impressed with me—I would be getting more responsibility (and a lot more money).

Lively, generous strokes showered upon the beard! Delighted by the exciting news it had heard from the tan, it purred with pride.

 

That night, Jess came home at the usual hour after work.

“How is there still construction on 97th?” she demanded while hanging up her coat. “What is there left to construct?”

Silence.

“Honey?”

She peered into the shady living room and noticed a figure sitting in a dark corner.

Beard watched her from the large armchair, feeling that the cushions supporting him were more of a throne than an Ikea purchase. 

Muscles and sinew tightened suddenly, bristling hackles that dripped with cedarwood oil. Skin pulled taut and lips shrunk under the tension like pale maggots, revealing a set of white teeth. It was not a kind smile.

YES DEAR? snapped Beard, with more spit than speech.

“OK…” she stared. “How are you?”

Oh fine, fine, fine, fine. Why don’t you have a seat? We have some very good news for you…

Jess let out a soft chuckle and sat on the couch. She raised one eyebrow and tightened the opposite corner of her mouth to show she wasn’t amused.

“We?” she asked. “Are you sure you’re fine? You don’t sound ok.”

From the armchair—short, sharp, dry staccato that might have been laughter.

Why shouldn’t I be ok? Why shouldn’t I celebrate my promotion? Beard punctuated the news with even tighter lips, with even more teeth.

“Really?! That’s great honey!” Jess exploded with excitement. “Wait, you’re being serious?” She quickly let the wind out of her jib. “I can’t tell what’s going on—”

Oh, you don’t believe me? You don’t think that I am capable of such a thing? Aha! I knew it! I knew— 

Beard trailed off, fuming and heaving with inarticulate anger. 

Jess looked at him silently for a while. Her placid expression was of calculating equanimity.

Finally, she gave a slow and steady nod.

“Look, I’m really happy for you. You deserve this promotion. But I think I know what’s going on here. You have a serious obsession with your beard. It’s not just an obsession… It’s like a mental disorder.”

With a sudden motion, Beard sucked his lips together, tugging the corners down in an arrogant scowl. Nostrils splayed open to loudly vacuum in a big draft of air.

“Honey,” Jess continued, firmly but gently, “I know you believe that it was your silly facial hair that helped you get the promotion. It wasn’t. It was all that extra work that you put in.”

Beard’s eyes lit up madly. He was ready—lungs puffed up with thundering, flashing clouds.

I knew you wouldn’t be supportive! I knew you wouldn’t be happy for me!

“What?! I am happy—”

No! You’re everything besides that: jealous, resentful, calculating… vicious!

With a hiss and a blur, Beard moved across the living room. The door cracked loudly like a gunshot—he was gone.

 

There is something ineffable about driving alone at night with the windows down. The hot summer air, cooled by the movement of the car, blows inside and circles all around. Flowing through you, that faithful headwind calms your heart and winnows your mind.

While slowly cruising down the suburban street—the road empty in front of me, the moon low in the sky and just beginning to inflate—I felt the slow trickle of remorse. The more I played back what had happened at the house with Jess, the worse I felt about it. And then came sheer embarrassment. As always, I rushed to my own defense, hurling excuses and sympathies at the judge and prosecution. But the clear sky above and the gentle, maternal rocking of the suspension under my buttocks brought me back to reality.

She was right. Things had gotten out of hand.

Leaning forward over the steering wheel, I looked up, scanning the sky. Ursa Major, my sage guide, pointed the way with her stark lines. I knew what I had to do.

But first, as I turned onto my favorite waterfront drive and saw bright Luna bathing in the gentle ripples of a calmed ocean, I leaned out of the open window one last time. For a long while, I lost myself in the side-view mirror, looking at the beard waving happily in pungent marine air. Under that boundless sidereal canvas, I watched him bare his teeth in pure ecstasy.

 

Arriving back at the house, I immediately ran up the stairs and straight into the bathroom. I believe my hands did shake and tremble when they reached for the electric clippers and fired them up. Then, after rummaging around in the medicine cabinet, I found my trusty razor blade and went to work. 

The job was done—all vestiges erased. 

I stared for a long time into the mirror. My skin looked wet and slick, like a prepubescent mistake glinting under the cool bathroom lights. My feverish act had been a rash mistake.

Or… maybe not.

The reflected face squinted back thoughtfully. And then, from the gloomy depth, a grin—hairless, smooth, and satisfied. 

Yes… I liked what I saw.