Down With Bearded Bros


Down With Bearded Bros

Illustration: Akshita Monga


t was at the Bengaluru airport, in transit, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-brained, that the epiphany hit me like a truck. I thought I was in a movie about unreasonably well-groomed clones, because whether I looked left, right, or centre, I saw only one kind of a man. A manicured beard, hair shaved from their sides to give the illusion of a faux-hawk (that’s a Mohawk without the commitment), and shirts which were one size too small so that the middle button is as overworked as they probably are at their investment-banking, fintech, number-crunching jobs.

At 5 am, perhaps due to sleep-deprivation-induced paranoia, I was about 60 per cent sure that I’d found myself in the middle of a Stormtrooper uprising, and that their Lord and saviour Darth Vader would descend upon us all at any time and annihilate our race. Or more accurately and honestly speaking, my system went into an anaphylactic shock over why I could not tell one man apart from another.