I’m not ticklish. Not anymore. My father tickled the tickle right out of his young brood during carpet tussles on the living room floor.
We would fling ourselves at him, exuberant and persistent in our mock combat. He subdued us with ease, making us squeal with joy as we yelped for aid. A particularly devastating move was the chin-rub, when papa’s stubbled jaw bore into the side of our ribs, or nettled where our necks met collarbone.
What delicious discomfort; what skill to roughhouse gently. We delighted in our father’s strength.
My dad’s “5 o’clock shadow” is embossed on my memory, a clear marker of manhood swallowed by the mind of a boy, paired forever with the lingering scent of the blue-bottled Gillette aftershave he still favors.
I knew that someday, when I grew up, I’d be bigger, stronger and hairier. And, like many boys, I couldn’t wait.
On the one hand, a beard is just a beard. It’s hair that grows from the face following puberty; it’s a secondary sex characteristic; it’s biology.
On the other hand, the beard is more than a reflection of age or physical development; it’s a symbol of masculinity and all that social definitions of manhood can entail: strength, virility, dominance, confidence, rebellion.
Christopher Oldstone-Moore, author of “Of Beards and Men: The Revealing History of Facial Hair,” writes, “Facial hair in the West has been associated for thousands of years with nature, autonomy and self-reliance, while shaving has been linked with constructions of manliness grounded on commitments to authorities beyond the self.”
We do, and perhaps always have, ascribed meaning to a beard (or the absence thereof). In fact, research indicates facial hair may increase a man’s attractiveness as a long term mate, signaling “intrasexual formidability and the potential to provide direct benefits to females.”
If that didn’t add enough pressure, historian Alun Withey observes, “Across time, thin or scraggly beards (or worse still the inability to grow one at all) have been seen as a symptom of bodily weakness.”
That’s not to say that beards are universally acclaimed. A beard’s meanings vary across time and cultures. Scholar Lucy Newton writes, “Ancient Egyptians believed shaving was associated with cleanliness. Greeks were proud of their beards, which symbolized authority and wisdom. Roman whiskers tended to be less luxurious and neater, while Vikings sported large beards and moustaches, their fearsome appearance adding to their formidable reputation in combat.”
“Conversely,” the historian adds, “later armies often discouraged facial hair as beards could be seized in battle by the enemy to incapacitate a soldier.”
The decision to sport a beard, then, is highly influenced not only by personal capacity or preference, but by the broader socio-cultural context. Trends in facial hair, like other aspects of grooming and fashion, come and go as different groups try to distinguish themselves from others and from previous generations.
But the trends are also influenced by cultural and political shifts. “Beard movements,” writes Oldstone-Moore, “occurred at crisis points, when hegemonic norms came into question.”
In his article where he discusses “the wonderful history of the beard,” Withey describes how facial hair trends have often correlated with times of upheaval in gender relations and traditional power structures. At times, the beard has been “an outward symbol by which men attempted to assert their authority.”
These observations beg analysis of the current beard climate. Vice-President JD Vance was the first major-party candidate to sport a beard in 75 years. And Zohran Mamdani will be the first mayor of New York City to have a beard since 1913.
What does it all mean? Withey muses, “Perhaps men feel somehow challenged by the erosion of traditional masculine roles, and the continuing blurring of gender boundaries in modern life.”
Perhaps the beard could act as a reclamation, a facial planting of a flag. Or, as Oldstone-Moore postulates, the variety of facial hair seen today could indicate “an unsettled argument about the right way to be a man.”
I don’t know about all that. I do know that, despite my father’s capacity to grow an excellent beard (we once pressured him into growing it out for a few weeks), he chooses not to.
Old family photos show him with an impressive mustache, but, as family legend goes, he once leaned in to kiss my mother and she turned to him with a toothbrush pressed against her upper-lip, bristles out. “This is what it feels like,” she said.
He’s been clean-shaven ever since.