David Robbins: How I learned to stop worrying and love the beard
Saturday November 21 2009
I am growing a beard. In fact, by the time you read this, it will be grown. It is, to my mind, a fine addition to the contents of my face. Rather distinguished-looking, in fact.
This radical step was not, I wish to make clear, undertaken as part of 'Movember', the annual drive to get men to grow moustaches at this time of the year in support of some charity or other.
You may have noticed that many of the Australian rugby team were sporting some upper-lippery during their match against Ireland at Croke Park last Sunday.
And you may have seen the hint of something dark and bristly below the nose of the Irish captain on the same occasion. TV analyst Brent Pope was moved to ask, "Is that the beginnings of a moustache?" after the skipper gave his post-match interview.
The Aussies, I understand, are taking part in this year's Movember campaign, which is aimed at raising awareness of issues relating to men's health. O'Driscoll's motives are less clear; perhaps he's doing it for a bet.
I did think about the moustache option. But not for long. It's difficult to think of anyone who has brought off a 'tache successfully, while the list of failures (Burt Reynolds, Dick Spring, Village People) is long and illustrious.
While I am an admirer of Monsieur Hercule Poirot, with his luxuriant waxed moustachios, and have rather a soft spot for the English toothbrush moustache as sported by Errol Flynn, David Niven, Terry-Thomas and Leslie Phillips, I felt it was not for me.
There is a scene in The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde in which Lady Bracknell asks Mr Worthing if he smokes. He answers in the affirmative.
"I am glad to hear it," her ladyship replies. "A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is."
As I already smoked, but found, contrary to Lady Bracknell's opinion, that it was not sufficient occupation for a man of my talents, I thought I would grow a beard during my spare time.
It is not an enterprise to be undertaken lightly. There are hardships (itchiness), pitfalls (unwanted adherents, such as beer froth) and indignities (accusations of being an intellectual, or worse, French).
I nearly abandoned the project several times. I was reminded often of my late mother's antipathy to facial hair. "I have only two rules in this house," she would say. "If you grow a beard or get a motorbike, you have to leave."
These twin evils were the surest signs of degeneracy in her eyes. Her hardline stance may have had something to do with the fact that many of my friends during my late teenage years were hairy bikers.
My uncle Harry was also a fan of the clean-shaven visage. Once, when I arrived for lunch with him, he gazed with distaste upon me in my trendy black shirt, black jacket and designer stubble. "You look like a handbag-snatcher," he announced. "Stand a little closer to the razor next time."
Mind you, his outspokenness was legendary in the family. Once at a family dinner, he poked at my sister-in-law's folded hands and said that they reminded him of a half-pound of Haffner's sausages.
Still, I remembered the excitement of youth, when the first wisps of facial hair began to appear. It was a sign of maturity, of entry into the world of razors and shaving brushes, barber shops with those straps for sharpening cut-throat blades, of sideburns, mutton chop whiskers, and manhood.
There are stages to growing a beard. There is the first heady stage, when not shaving carries a whiff of social rebellion. Then there's the disreputable, rather itchy stage, when it is neither stubble nor beard proper. In honour of uncle Harry, I call this the handbag-snatcher stage.
Then, suddenly, it stops looking like a mistake or an omission, and starts looking quite grown-up. It is at this stage that people, mostly women, feel free to comment on it.
Prickly, says my daughter. Hmmm, not sure, says my wife. Shave it off, says a voice from beyond the grave.
drobbins@independent.ie
Irish Independent
