The Curse of the Big Bad Beard

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The Curse of the Big Bad Beard

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very man, at some point in his life, has felt the call of the beard. It begins during the most tumultuous period, the onset of puberty. A row of wispy hair, resembling a permanent smear of dirt, takes up residence on your upper lip, and suddenly your sideburns seem to be descending lower and lower every time you get a haircut. Then come the long-drawn spells of contemplation in front of the bathroom mirror, where you inspect your jawline for new growth and dream of beards to come.

The beard is to men what the hairdo is to women. Leaving aside the man-bun and the undercut-sporting hipsters of the urban metropolis, haircuts for men usually come in two varieties: the scraggly, unkempt Jesus do, and the closely cropped, no-fuss haircut. No bangs, fringes, perms, and extensions for us. Instead, what we have is our beards. I might have taken the delusions of bearded grandeur too far while growing up – the photos on each of my school ID cards have different styles of facial hair doodled on them in ball-pen ink.

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