The Care and Feeding of a Beard
t 45, I had a library full of self-improvement books, and an empty space
where my soul used to be. I emptied the shelves except for one book, a book that was over 3,000
years old. It is called by various names : Torah, Bible, Old Testament, or Five Books of Moses. In
this ancient book there are 613 commandments, the ten most famous of which were carved into
stone tablets. After half a lifetime of searching for new wisdom, I journeyed back to the laws of
my people.
The commandment that gave me the most trouble was a simple one:
Not shave? It took me three years to get the courage to walk that gauntlet.
I threw out the Sunbeam electric shaver, the Bic double edge, the Foamy shaving creme, the Old Spice aftershave, the antiseptic pencil, and the tiny Band-Aids. Gone was the morning scraping of my face. Also gone was the slicing, ripping, bleeding, and yelling "Oh my God!" as the alcohol in the aftershave hit the open wounds. The first fateful morning, I simply brushed my teeth, got dressed, and left the house.
Free at last! Great God Almighty, free at last!
After three days, the snide comments started. "Forget something this morning, did we?" Then there was: "You'll find the razor works better when you put in a blade." Or, for those less wordy: "You look like a bum."
Wonderful.
"No, I'm not growing a beard, my beard is growing a face." Take that, you. Or: "My beard isn't getting longer, my face is shrinking." Now shut up and go away. For the less wordy: " I am a bum, and could you spare some change?" Ask for money, end a conversation. That's how this mature adult responded to the snidicisms. It is not a law given in The Book, but sometimes immaturity is best fought on its own battleground.
The itching was a different matter. That war was within. When it became unbearable, I sought the council of one with legendary beard experience. Someone outside the fold. A native son.
"Itch? Yeah. I think it used to. Hard to remember." Jimmy Joe had a long red beard, and a pony tail running down between his shoulders. "Don't cut none of it no more. Haven't for ten years. Just tie it in back and let it hang in front." He checked his rifle, returned it to its perch along the rear window, and drove away in his pickup.
Not much help there.
So I scratched. And scratched. One morning, after a month of torture, just as I was reaching for my wife's pink Lady Gillette, the itching stopped. Thank you, Lord!
Then the food problems began.
I had hair around my lips. Long protruding hair. I ate with those same lips. When I ate, sometimes the food was bigger than my mouth. Things like a hamburger, french fries, and a soda pop. Result: stuff got all over my beard. When I was a clean-shaven heathen, I took a napkin and wiped the stuff off. No big deal. With a beard, it felt like the crumbs, the ketchup, and the grease were absorbed into the follicles. No amount of wiping made me feel clean. I had to go and wash.
There is a positive side to this. For those who like between meal snacks, a beard is a handy storage medium. But first you should make sure you will be alone. Others will find it quite unappetizing to see you carrying around little bits of meat on your face.
Then there was the final humiliation.
I was in the mall during the third week in December. I was sitting on a bench, minding my own business, waiting for my wife to finish shopping at J.C. Penny's. A cute little boy, about five, holding a sticky candy, climbed into my lap.
"I want an 'lectric jeep and roller blades," he said.
His mother ran up, red-faced, and pulled him away."No Billy, that's not Santa Claus."
My wife timed her return to witness this scene.
"Tell your father I'm sorry," the mother said to my wife as she ran off.
Okay, so maybe I do have a lot of gray in my beard, and I could lose a few pounds. After my wife stopped laughing and wiped the tears from her face, I told her I didn't think this incident was the least bit funny. I have to constantly remind her of this. I also have to remind her I don't like it when she calls me Dad.
If pleading for compassion does not stop my wife, I say, "Lo sashchis ace puh-as zikahnechaw". I pronounce it ultra-guttural so that it sounds like swearing in Hebrew. When she asks what I am saying, I refuse to translate, and this evens the score. I will tell you now what it means, only if you promise not to tell her. Do you promise? Swear!
Okay. It means "thou shalt not cut the edges of thy beard", the holy words that got me into trouble in the first place.
Speaking of holy, I have also taken to wearing a yamika, or skullcap. This is not a commandment, but a custom intended to remind us there is always One above us.
A few months ago, after a business trip, I was sitting by myself on a plane from New York. I was wearing a dark suit, a yamika, and of course, my beard. A man of 50 came up and sat next to me.
"Rabbi," he said, "I just buried my mother."
Before I could correct his impression of me, he began pouring out his grief and love.
"Could I have a blessing for my mother?" he asked when he was done. He wiped his eyes.
"Yivorecha adonoy vayishmorecha"." Touching his shoulder, I translated, "May the Lord bless you and watch over you."
He thanked me and left.
If you promise not to tell anyone, I will tell you another secret. After he left, I cried. I had not cried in thirty years, and it felt ... good.
Speaking of Rabbis, our Rabbi's reaction to my beard was heartwarming. He is a young man of 28, with a luxuriant dark beard he has never shaved. When he gazed upon my face after a year of growth, he said, "Zalman, your beard looks beautiful!" No man ever said a part of me was beautiful. I found it ... pleasing.
Our Rabbi also has a playful side. Sporting a sly look, he stroked his beard and asked, "So, do you feel more spiritual?"
I stared up at the sky, lost in thought. Finally, after the appropriate amount of deliberation, I said, "Sometimes, Rabbi. And sometimes, I feel like a Jewish Santa Claus."
He did not know of the incident at the mall, and I did not educate him about it. I have learned that bearded people are shrouded in many things, and one of them is mystery.
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