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No Beard if You Want Service




May 10th, 2012

The dreaded beard. Lose the beard, the family and friends say.

"Come on, I'll take you to the barber myself." (brother(s))

"That beard, isn't you, Chris? Lose it." (sister.)

"What's with growing the beard, man?" (friend.)

I never thought I could grow a full beard. I would shave before work because I had no choice but to shave. We cannot grow facial hair on road patrol or in a specialized unit. Unless it rose above the upper lip. In law enforcement, the beard is equal to a dirty Sanchez.

I would shave the night before my scheduled work day, and that would be sufficient for me to go a whole week before I had to shave again. I always thought beards never worked for me, honestly. But only because I didn't know I could grow one at age thirty-eight.

The mustache would never reach the whiskers on my chin. So I thought. But I only grew it a little for this long to find out.

The hair follicles on my face would slowly grow out, leaving it rough like sandpaper.

Reminiscent of the five o'clock shadow look you'd find on old TV shows like Miami Vice. I always liked that look. Don't try to kiss your soft-skinned loved one with that stubble.

As the white skin on my face slowly dissolved into brown filament, it would never entirely cover the entire length of my face, leaving patches of skin like some kind of weird skin disease. The longer I have gone without shaving, the more it has filled in, leaving me with a bona fide beard.

My beard has attached to my face as the grief of Mimie's loss has attached itself to my soul. In my moments of sadness, I feel myself tugging at it like a madman controlling his sinister plot. When my kids lie in my arms, they reach back and rub their hands over it. It's the only caring, actual human contact and consoling I have had since March 15th.

The beard grows in sync with the length of the days I lost my wife. It's the only natural way I can measure the time of loss and despair for my boys and me.

I'm not ready to lose the beard. It feels like I will have moved past our loss when I do shave. If my kids could grow a beard, they would also.

My life has been altered like the beard alters people's view of me when they finally come around to see me again. It reminds them that the boys and I are here, and we are still grieving. It shows them we aren't getting better when they aren't around. The only thing they see is a beard that is still here, just as it was still there on my face a month ago when they last saw me… a month ago when they last saw me.

The beard is here, and it is accurate. The beard is as natural as the loss that we are experiencing. The beard is as weird to those who see it on my face as this situation is strange to us. The beard bothers those who see it as much as my situation bothers my boys and me.

The beard is natural. My situation is actual. The loss for my boys is real.

The beard stays. (to everyone.)










Christopher Fusaro. The author of Captain Imperfecto.

Captain Imperfecto, LLC. © Copyright . All rights reserved. This material may not be republished, rewritten, or redistributed without permission.  Please contact if you would like to re-publish in film, television, or print. 


560 words


Also see us at www.captainimperfecto.com




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Comments

  1. renataSeptember 5, 2012 at 7:16 PM

    In my culture... When a husband dies the wife MUST wear black for a whole year. In other cultures there are similar outward signs to show Ur grief. Ur beard was one of Ur ways to show Ur grief.

    ReplyDelete

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