Over the past
week my beard has crept back onto my face.
This makes it sound like a separate entity; a hairy beast that skulks around my flat and crawls up my body when I’m sleeping, returning to its rightful place. It’s worth clarifying that my beard doesn’t have a mind of its own – but it has grown back despite my best intentions.
For almost as long as I could manage it, I’ve had facial hair. I’m not talking about my eyebrows – they’re a given – but a variety of supplementary adornments, grown according to my personal taste. My love of music certainly played a part: I used to wish I was a child of the Sixties – and if I couldn’t make that dream a reality, I could make myself look the part at the very least.
I used to sport a massive pair of muttonchops, that got abuse and praise in equal measure. People would speed past me in their cars, shouting “SIDBURNS” out of the window – as if I was unaware I had them and needed some kind of verbal warning.
At drama school I was told they’d go against me and limit my chance of securing work. I remember doing a mock Theatre-in-Education audition – and afterwards being told I looked too much like a musician when entering the room. I understood the crux of what they were saying, though the fact I'd walked in carrying a guitar might have had some small bearing on this.
When it came to leaving college they didn’t limit me in the slightest; if anything, my quirkiness got me more work – and if my facial hair wasn’t appropriate to the job, I’d shave it off. It wasn’t half as complicated as everybody had made out.
The large sidies were resigned to the past about a decade ago; I’d finally reached the conclusion that they made me look a dick. Now I either have a beard or I’m reasonably clean-shaven; the Noddy Holder tribute has long since left my face.
Over the past three of four years, the beard has come and gone. If I’m working, I’ll usually lose it – it didn't work for Buddy Holly, for example; if he'd been Beardy Holly I might have got away with it. Last year I tried to keep it for the whole twelve months, just to see if I could - but a beard-free gig got in the way just a few weeks before the crucial deadline.
The reason for my facial hair is two-fold. Firstly, I’m lazy, and would sooner shave only once a week at the very most – and secondly, I just don’t like my face. Having a beard is like a form of plastic surgery on the cheap.
Whatever the case, the beard isn't back for good. These last few days are nothing more than a hairy hiatus.
This makes it sound like a separate entity; a hairy beast that skulks around my flat and crawls up my body when I’m sleeping, returning to its rightful place. It’s worth clarifying that my beard doesn’t have a mind of its own – but it has grown back despite my best intentions.
For almost as long as I could manage it, I’ve had facial hair. I’m not talking about my eyebrows – they’re a given – but a variety of supplementary adornments, grown according to my personal taste. My love of music certainly played a part: I used to wish I was a child of the Sixties – and if I couldn’t make that dream a reality, I could make myself look the part at the very least.
I used to sport a massive pair of muttonchops, that got abuse and praise in equal measure. People would speed past me in their cars, shouting “SIDBURNS” out of the window – as if I was unaware I had them and needed some kind of verbal warning.
At drama school I was told they’d go against me and limit my chance of securing work. I remember doing a mock Theatre-in-Education audition – and afterwards being told I looked too much like a musician when entering the room. I understood the crux of what they were saying, though the fact I'd walked in carrying a guitar might have had some small bearing on this.
When it came to leaving college they didn’t limit me in the slightest; if anything, my quirkiness got me more work – and if my facial hair wasn’t appropriate to the job, I’d shave it off. It wasn’t half as complicated as everybody had made out.
The large sidies were resigned to the past about a decade ago; I’d finally reached the conclusion that they made me look a dick. Now I either have a beard or I’m reasonably clean-shaven; the Noddy Holder tribute has long since left my face.
Over the past three of four years, the beard has come and gone. If I’m working, I’ll usually lose it – it didn't work for Buddy Holly, for example; if he'd been Beardy Holly I might have got away with it. Last year I tried to keep it for the whole twelve months, just to see if I could - but a beard-free gig got in the way just a few weeks before the crucial deadline.
The reason for my facial hair is two-fold. Firstly, I’m lazy, and would sooner shave only once a week at the very most – and secondly, I just don’t like my face. Having a beard is like a form of plastic surgery on the cheap.
Whatever the case, the beard isn't back for good. These last few days are nothing more than a hairy hiatus.
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| Photograph (c) Gemma Poole |