My Beard

by Judith Bakkensen

 

I run my hand through my beard.  There is one course curly hair that I worry around my finger.  My beard.  How long have I grown this nest of tangled wild stuff.  It has a fresh nutty smell.  I keep it clean and fresh to please myself.  It is my companion.  It sooths my nerves to stroke it slowly and rhythmically.  It keeps a fierce face on me when I want to appear menacing and strong.  My beard is a part of my attire - like my logger's suspenders or my plaid shirt.  It keeps me company.  It comes to bed with me.  My wife nestles in its exuberance.  She pushes her face toward my lips and holds my beard to keep me in place.

 

I don't believe I will ever shave.  Perhaps if it should become stringy or lifeless, but not likely.

 

One last look in the mirror.  Combing my mustache and beard, shiny and friendly in the low light.  Is it OK for a man to love his beard?