Ugly Beard Phase

Getting from one state to another means going through some rough spots.

“I wonder if I can train the beard to type for me…”

I’ve had a couple of different restaurant jobs in my life—both short-lived, unglamorous, kind of cringe.

I made sandwiches in a Subway for a week before slicing my thumb while cutting bread, and then quitting because “work sucks.”

My next foray into the field of food and food service was as a line cook for a trendy mall restaurant, a sort of knockoff of Bennigan’s without the name recognition, or the charm. My job consisted mostly of throwing frozen Monte Cristo sandwiches into a vat of boiling oil and taking them out when the timer told me to. That one I left after about a month. Maybe two. It’s hard to remember because I was also going to engineering school at the time, and the multi-hour drives and nights of very little sleep were killing me.

But essentially, it’s fair to say that I don’t have a long or storied career in the food industry.

Again, I wasn’t a server, but I think the managers of that restaurant saw everyone as potentially being moved into that role. So in our daily roundups, as we got marching orders before our shifts started, they would remind everyone of the rules. And one of those rules was “no ugly beard phase.”

Not much else has stuck with me as a “life lesson” from those days, but this one has.

Ugly Beard Phase is the stage of beard growth that occurs when you’re growing a beard for the first time, or if you haven’t yet grown a beard often enough or full enough that your face knows what to do with all these new hairs it’s sprouting. Think of a sixteen-year-old trying to grow any sort of facial hair and you’ll probably be able to visualize it. Thin, wispy, anemic little strands of dark hair sprouting among a field of down-like blond fuzz. Like weeds in a garden, only the garden is really all dirt and weeds anyway.

When I was a senior in high school, I decided to grow a mustache. I have prom photos to prove it. No, you cannot see them. But the point is, this is where I first went through an Ugly Beard Phase, albeit limited to my top lip. That mustache was so pathetic, most people thought I’d just had an Oreo milkshake and hadn’t washed my face yet. But it was facial hair. And I grew it. I was a man now. Also, I would like an Oreo milkshake.

Later, when I tried growing something much more beard like, I went through this again. This time, it was for a Van Dyke, or what most people mistakenly call a “goatee.” Most people, including me, at the time.

I grew and trimmed and shaped this circle of facial hair around my mouth, encouraging it with oils, doing all I could to try to emphasize it. Eventually, it did grow out more. And I kept it for several years. It became part of my look. Just part of my face.

It’s funny, but when I look at photos of me with that Van Dyke now, I cringe. Something about it looks so “not me.” It looks so desperate to me, like I was really trying to be someone, and I wasn’t even sure who it should be.

I think it’s because that Kevin, with his “goatee” and his baseball caps, with his jean shorts and his rolled socks, with his leather mobile phone case on his hip—that was a really different Kevin. The roots, the rudiments of who I would become, all of that was sort of there. But it was thin and wispy, and ugly, like a newly incoming beard.

I eventually shaved the Van Dyke, and kept my face nice and smooth for many years to follow. This, too, is an era of cringe for me. Because frankly... well... not to be too blunt about it, but I was fat. I was a fat-fat-fatty-McFat-face. And at one point, I let my hair grow too long, and get too frizzy, and it framed my fat, unshaven face like a Bob Ross fro halo. And all that did for me was emphasize my fat face and my sort of awkward lameness.

I’m pretty critical of who I used to be, I guess. I should let up. I mean, I am who I am today because of the decisions and actions of who I was back then.

It was just an Ugly Beard Phase.

Eventually, I decided I would grow a real beard. A full beard. A “Commander Will Riker” beard. You know, from Star Trek: The Next Generation. That guy could rock a beard.

But my first attempt didn’t go well.

Funny story—the Van Dyke part of my beard grew in nice and thick and full. You could see it. Darker and more developed than the rest of my facial hair. Prominent. Standing proud.

The surrounding beard, on the other hand, was patchy. Blotchy. Sad.

I shaved it all off. Back to smooth, fat, fatty-McFat-face.

But a year or so later, I tried again. I let the beard grow. And again, the Van Dyke came in first and came in strong. But this time, the rest of the beard filled out a bit more. And it occurred to me that each time I shaved it and started over, it did a little better. It grew a bit more. I had to go back to zero. Or close to it. But with each pass, Ugly Beard Phase was a little less noticeable.

Then, eventually, the beard was in.

Full. Lustrous. Sculpted. Sometimes, anyway. There were times when it got a little scraggly.

I started using beard oil to soften it. Starting brushing to train it. At first, as I got older and the salt started to overwhelm the pepper, I wondered if I should color it. But nah. Men have only one natural super power, and that is to look better with a bit of gray.

I don’t make the rules.

Eventually, the beard got a little too full. Kara took a critical look at me one day and said, “It’s starting a look a little too Santa Claus.” Not snowy white, just bushy. Too long, too hard to keep kempt.

So I mowed it down to about 5-o’clock shadow level. Which, apparently was too short for Kara. Too “baby faced.” Though to me, I was rocking a sort of movie star energy, but whatever.

I let it grow again, then. Back to a level that made us both happy. And now, I maintain it at a nice, attractive length. A little more than 5-o’clock shadow, a lot less than Santa Claus. Just right. Until I decide otherwise. But I think we’re in a good space.

The cool part, the interesting part, and frankly the life lesson part, is that now, there is no Ugly Beard Phase.

If I shaved this thing off and went back to bare skin, I’d look like I was twelve. My face is much thinner now—Thinny-McThin-Face—and that helps a lot. But the real kicker is that as the facial hair grows, as it reaches that 5-o’clock shadow level, it looks much more... intentional. It looks like something someone planned for and cultivated. Not ugly, not patchy, but purposeful.

That’s the way things work, across a universe of possibilities for your life.

Right now I’m making a transition in my writing career. I’ve had some success over the years. But it was never quite the beard I was hoping to grow. My first attempt at this was thin and wispy, pathetic strands on a fat face. A publishing contract that ended up going nowhere, and costing me a lot.

The second attempt was better. Fuller, though it took some time to grow. And there were still some patches here and there. It looked kind of rough. It was serviceable. I wrote, I published, I made money, and I talked to others about doing the same. It was a decent beard, but eventually, when it did start to fill out, it got a little too Santa Claus for my taste. I had to trim it back.

So I started again and went through a 5-o’clock shadow phase. It looked good, though there wasn’t much to it. It was serviceable, and I could live with it. But it still wasn’t “me.” It still wasn’t the face I knew I should present to myself in the mirror each day.

So I kept at it. I let it grow. And eventually it passed right out of the Ugly Beard Phase and became something closer to the beard I wanted. It’s still growing, but the signs are there. The Van Dyke part, the early version of my career-beard, isn’t as prominent now. It blends better. It’s become part of a fuller experience.

I’m still growing it out. I’m trimming and caring for it, shaping it, shaving the neck-beard and cleaning up the edges. But I can see it. I’m getting comments and compliments on it.

No more Ugly Beard Phase. My writing is becoming the beard that best suits me. Writey-McWrite-Face.

The same applies to everything else.

I have a relationship beard. A financial beard. A walk-with-God beard. Beards for every aspect of my life. And they’ve all had their ugly growth for a time. Some are still in that Ugly Beard Phase. But I’ve got good trimmers now. I’ve got some fine beard oils. I’ve got more patience to spend the time caring for and crafting and shaping each of my beards. They’re coming in nicely.

That’s life for you. To get from the smooth baby face of youth to the finely trimmed beard of adulthood, you have to go through the Ugly Beard Phase.

Next up, though, is nose and ear hair.

A NOTE AT THE END

This morning I had an Ugly Beard Phase moment. I’m not proud of it. I’ve been thinking about it for the past couple of hours, in fact. I realized, in the instant of it, that I was not being who I was supposed to be. I wasn’t being Christ-like, that’s for sure. I wasn’t stoic. I wasn’t kind. Rather than being someone who pauses and chooses a response, I defaulted right back into reacting.

I’m not going to go into the details. The sketch is that I encountered someone while I was out on my morning walk, while I was in a headspace of being inspired and trying to see past the struggles in my life, to live in the moment, to walk and talk with God. And the person I encountered randomly and insistently attacked me, verbally. She called me a vile name, out of the blue, and said some nasty things to me, unprovoked.

Rather than pause and choose to respond with kindness, love, or even just silence, I slapped right back.

It was an ugly response. Really ugly. I regretted it the instant it happened. And I spent the rest of my walk home praying for forgiveness for me and mercy and blessing for her.

My one abiding hope is that this is something I’ll learn and grow from.

I want to get past this Ugly Beard Phase, and grow out a lustrous, full beard of “choosing to respond with love, rather than reacting from ego and hurt.”

Not my greatest, shiniest moment. But if I don’t manage to learn and grow from it, that’s far worse than the moment itself.

So, I come here, I write what comes to me, and I try very hard to learn from my own metaphors and anecdotes. I trim the beard and try again.

“I still think it should have been ‘A Song of FIRE and ICE.’ What was that guy thinking?”