Beards: OK for saints but not for sinners
It is a beautiful, barefaced truth today, that the grizzled photo of MacConnell immediately to the right is out of date.
I now look at least 15 years younger, and infinitely more respectable. Folk who viewed me with suspicion, even a month ago, now greet me warmly every day on the street, and even stand there and talk to me.
Remarkable and pleasant.
I feel like a new man altogether. Accordingly, for
obvious reasons, this yarn will be of most interest to the
significant segment of Irishmen who, like me, have been hiding their faces behind heavy beards for all of their adult lives. Like myself, most of them have valid reasons for so doing.
In my case, the angels on the baby assembly line were in bad form when they were rooting through the box for my features, well over 60 years ago. It was probably a Monday morning job.
Anyway, they kitted out my poor head with the Roman nose suitable for a much larger man, and added a wee, weak, pointy class of a chin below.
Disaster. My classmates quickly nicknamed me Mekon after a hideous alien creature in the comics of that era and the likeness, in fairness to them, was remarkable.
I responded, as soon as I could, by growing the beard, behind which I have been hiding my malformed visage all my life since.
This confession, let me tell ye, is not easy to publicly write but, again,the pure truth is my commerce here.
It is incredibly and sadly a reality that away back then, in my late teens and twenties, the congregations who
gathered each Sunday in the chapels of Ireland venerated the mighty saints imprinted on the stained glass windows all around them.
All those saints were bearded, and even the Son of God was equipped with a beard, for Heaven’s sake.
Yet, any ordinary poor sinner in the benches beside them, certainly back then in the yesterdays, was regarded with high suspicion, and even contempt, if he hadn’t shaved before going to Mass.
In the wider arena of living, respectable mothers did not want to see a bearded lad moving anywhere close to their daughters, policemen suspected you of every crime in the parish, and employers were slow to offer you a job. You might be one of them new species of hippies, that were not to be trusted at all.
The residue of that opinion survives to this day amongst certain elements of society, and that is a hard truth too.
As all you beardies know, there are a few positives submerged below all the negatives. We save a small
fortune, through not having to buy razor blades all our lives. Nobody can read our facial
expressions either. They are all hidden from view.
When the inevitable periods for weeping arrive, as they do, in times of loss, that is almost invisible too, because our tears dive into the beard and quickly disappear.
Also,in later years, when our beards go grey and silver, we can often pretend to be wise, by stroking them slowly in a clockwise direction. This often works quite well too.
There are compensations for our lower status in society, maybe.
At any rate, to bring the story up to date, a horse-fly bit my face during the recent heatwave, and I developed a skin rash.
Something had to be done, so I attacked my beard, initially with scissors, then with a modern razor.
And, lads, I quickly learned that shaving is an art that I, and probably you too, have totally lost.
I lacerated myself horribly down both cheeks.
I was afraid to go outside the door for two days.
Total disaster! Fortunately, though, when I did venture out again, I was blessed to meet a neighbour’s daughter, who is truly an angel.
Her name is Marie McCallan, she runs her own handmade soap company named Clonfadda Handmade Soap, and she instantly gifted me with a silvery tin of mighty shaving soap fortified with peppermint, eucalyptus and a magic ingredient called bentonite clay.
She patted me on the head in a maternal fashion, and advised me to throw away the razor, wash my beard thoroughly with her product, and invest in an electric shaver.
I followed all instructions with instantly magical results.
Lads, ye should see me now. My cheeks are as soft and smooth as a baby’s bottom and that, for sure, is another pure truth.
I retained the silver goatee element of my departed beard, for the reason defined above.
I fancy I nowadays look quite wise, when I stroke it in an anti-clockwise motion during pub debates.
An amusing incident
occurred yesterday, when my one and only daughter, Ciara, arrived for a brief visit, and nearly fainted when she met me at the door.
“Dad”,says she,” I’m seeing your face for the first time ever. I never knew what your cheeks look like!”.
Finally, fellow beardies, if you ever feel like coming out, so to speak, first contact Marie at Clonfadda Handmade Soap, lather yourself well with that bentonite clay stuff, deploy an electric shaver, and be prepared for an amazed reaction from all and sundry.
I’m away now for a quick shave, before heading into town.
