I like my beard.
Erin asked me to grow it a long time ago, and like most good life decisions, I didn’t ask many follow-up questions.
I just said yes and started cultivating face foliage like a man with purpose.
I assume she had her reasons.
Mostly structural.
Because under this beard is a situation.
Not a disaster… just… minimal architecture.
No real chin to speak of.
Lips that clock out early.
A jawline that never quite committed to the job.
The beard?
The beard is support staff.
I shaved it once.
Once.
My daughter Abbey was three. I went to pick her up in a public place, smiling like a father who had just rediscovered his face.
She looked at me.
Paused.
And then—full volume, no hesitation…
“That’s NOT my dad!”
Which is humbling.
But also alarming when you’re holding snacks and making direct eye contact with a child who is now alerting the community.
People started gathering.
Not aggressively.
Just… circling.
Like I was either about to abduct a toddler or auditioning for a very specific episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.
I tried to laugh it off.
No one else did.
Eventually, the real me convinced her.
But the message was clear.
The beard stays.
Now, I’ve noticed there are two kinds of men.
Men with beards…
and men who are one bad decision away from one.
Some wear them like art.
Sharp lines. Intentional edges. Smell like cedar and confidence.
Others look like they lost a bet with winter.
And me?
I started as concealment.
A soft blur filter for my lower face.
But somewhere along the way, it became something else.
Because now there’s gray in it.
Just enough to whisper, “He’s seen some things.”
Which feels generous.
I used to think the beard was there to fix what was missing.
Now I think it stayed to mark what was found.
Time.
Perspective.
A little less proving.
A little more being.
Also… still no chin.
So we’re not getting carried away.
And now mustaches are coming back.
Just… mustaches.
Bold. Unaccompanied.
Walking around like it’s 1978 and no one has questions.
I have questions.
But that’s for another day.
For now…
the beard stays.
Not because I need it.
Not because Erin asked me to grow it.
And not because Abbey might alert mall security if I shave it.
Although that remains a legitimate concern.
It stays because somewhere along the way, I stopped looking in the mirror for what needed fixing.
That took longer than growing a beard.
A lot longer.
Maybe that’s one of the quieter gifts of getting older.
You spend the first half of your life examining yourself for what’s missing.
More success.
More approval.
More hair.
A better body.
A stronger jawline would’ve been nice.
Then, if you’re lucky, something shifts.
You stop asking the mirror to tell you who you should become.
And you start recognizing the person already standing there.
Gray hairs.
Wrinkles.
Mistakes.
Stories.
All of it.
I used to think the beard was there to hide what I didn’t like about my face.
Turns out, I just had to live long enough to stop hiding from the rest of me.
So yes…
the beard stays.
And underneath it?
Still basically no chin.
But finally…
no problem.
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