Fresh Face

Today I shaved off my full beard and moustache.

I am facial hair-free for the first time in 17 years. My beard could have graduated from high school by now.

I first grew a beard when I was 30. I wanted to grow one years before, but I waited because the hair on my upper lip didn't fill out enough to "support" a mustache until then, and I didn't want an Amish look (sorry, Sheila!). At first it accomplished the two things I was looking to do: swathe my pronounced double chin in darkness, and put an end to those embarrassing "Are you a boy or a girl?" questions I used to get from kids in supermarkets.

It was a rather handsome beard, soft from handsful of conditioner and more rusty red (and more luxuriant) than the hair up top. Although I would've preferred a scruffy counterculture look a la Jeff Bridges in King Kong (1970's version), admittedly the effect was more like Mr. French. But I got into it. I never wore an ascot, though.

I wasn't very good at beard maintenance. There would be times when the left side was nicely proportioned and the right side looked like I used pruning shears in a darkroom. I found that trimming it at work - at my desk - under fluorescent light - at the Justice Department - was the easiest, but occasionally I'd be caught red-handed and red-faced, a dusting of whiskers over the entire desk top. That wasn't so good. Unprofessional, doncha know.

When I graduated to using an electric clipper - at home - the results were more uniform, but there were a few disasters. One that comes to mind: I had forgotten to replace the guard over the blade and accidentally mowed an inch-wide strip from my neck to my bottom lip before I realized what I was doing. The exposed white flesh fairly glowed compared to the dark beard on either side. It looked like I was drooling milk. I wore a bandage over it for three weeks and had the whole office wondering what had happened to my face.

Over time, as my hair turned silver, its camouflaging properties waned. But the spectre of all that jiggly white chin flapping for all the world to see kept me from shaving it off.

This morning, I thought, "Hmmmmmm - I've lost enough weight that I could maybe go hairless!" So without a second thought I did it. Three razor blades and about half a can of shaving cream later, the deed was done. I debated keeping the moustache, and pondered the various configurations possible for the sideburns, but in the end I opted for a Kennedyesque look (all right, Ted Kennedyesque).

For the first few minutes, I stared into the mirror, wondering who this baby-faced guy was. The skin is surprisingly smooth, protected all these years from the sun and razor burn, but when did the lines get so damned deep? I contemplated taking a quick trip to Mexico for a round of botox injections or a little surgical freshening up. But then a funny thing happened: I started seeing some of my parents' facial features reflected there, and it was strangely comforting to have Mom and Dad with me again.

So here I am, unmasked, revealed, naked to the world.

It's definitely okay.

But I'm going to start doing those turkeyneck exercises first thing in the morning.