When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one person to dissolve the follicle bonds which have connected hair to face, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that he should declare the causes which impel them to separation… in other words, I have shaved off the beard, and this is why.

First let me say: it was a good run, beardy ole pal. I will miss how you made me look older, how you caused people in my journalism class to think for a short time I was a junior somehow forced to retake a freshman-level class. I will miss hearing people exclaim, “Oh, hey, beard man,” when they recognize me but don’t know my name. I will miss having something in common with some of the more interesting people at Northwestern. Not since The Lord of the Rings have I seen so many awesome beards. But most of all I will miss drawing undue comparisons to Burt Reynolds at parties.

I was sorry to see the beard go, but I had to break it up. Beard, it wasn’t you, it was me. I just wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship. Upon my arrival home, my little sister, who followed my progress on the Internet all winter, perhaps put it best: “I could take it from afar, but up close it’s just too much.” By the next day the beard was gone. Trust your family to keep you in check.

During my quest to not shave during Winter Quarter — one that lasted from January 9 to March 14 — I learned that a beard is a powerful thing. Chris Wade, a junior majoring in Radio/Television/Film, said that whenever he walks into a room, he checks to see if anyone has a better beard. Toward the end of my two bearded months, I unconsciously had begun doing the same thing. Now without the beard, I’ve caught myself staring at stubbly-faced people a few times, the way a rich man who has lost it all silently scorns every yuppie who whizzes by in a BMW. That a beard, and subsequent loss of it, could generate such feelings of elitism and envy only enforces my point about the pogonological potency.

Paula Russo, a history teacher at my alma mater, sent me something that lends credence to the apparent need both Wade and I felt to assert our superiority over our less hairy peers. The historian Diodorus, writing in the 1st century BC, describes a tribe of Celts:

“Their aspect is terrifying…They look like wood-demons, their hair thick and shaggy like a horse’s mane. Some of them are clean shaven, but others – especially those of high rank – shave their cheeks but leave a moustache that covers the whole mouth…”

Regardless of anything else I’ve written this year, Diodorus provides the only reason anyone could ever need to grow facial hair. Charles I might be my beard hero, but he never charged naked into battle.

Growing a beard is symbolic and powerful. If your friends or parents have qualms about your lazy tendencies or inability to follow through… grow a beard. If you wanted to be compared to a caveman, Burt Reynolds, and a Russian revolutionary over the course of one day… grow a beard. It shows dedication without taking work, while setting you apart from your peers and making you feel superior to those poor freshmen saps who can’t even eke out a whisker. So although I have shaved and readjusted to a clean-shaven lifestyle, we’ll always have Winter Quarter, beardy ole pal — you know that.

As much as you might think that this is just some kooky idea I’ve conjured up, it isn’t. (Read on for one I actually have.) The Beard Liberation Front, or BLF, is a British group that combats discrimination against bearded people. Founded in 1995 by socialist historian Keith Flett (what is it with socialists and beards, anyway?), the BLF gives out an annual Beard of the Year award to notable people who have railed against an otherwise clean-shaven system.

While some BLF campaigns are semi-humorous (they cited Santa Claus as promoting beardist taunts during the holidays), the organization has taken hard-line stances on many mainstream issues. They spoke out against Exxon Mobil’s ban on beards worn by workers and, according to a 2002 article by BBC News, the BLF called for a protest of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix because of the “obviously false” facial hair worn by actors Richard Harris and Robbie Coltrane in the film.

The goals and rhetoric of the Beard Liberation Front come as a burst of fresh air in this politically correct age where people are divvied up into minority groups and every college pamphlet from Cornell to clown school is riddled with that nine-letter word — ooh, it pains me to say it — diversity. It’s good to see that beard advocates have decided, “Hey, if every other minority group is doing this, why can’t we?”

Granted, beards, unlike race or gender, are a personal choice. But a bias against beards is still a bias against appearance, and that is just as troubling an issue as any other. To show solidarity with the Beard Liberation Front, and in light of the successful and important messages spread during both Black and Women’s History months, I propose Beard History Month.

Beard History Month would be a time when people can look past physical differences and join together in celebration of bearded peoples’ struggle to surmount clean-shaven oppression. No matter what their political beliefs, great figures in beard history can be honored and bearded martyrs memorialized.

Since February and March are already Black History and Women’s History months, respectively, the logical choice would seemingly be December. After all, December is the month in which tradition says Jesus was born, and while Jesus is famous for his skills at carpentry (among other things), he also had a beard. But celebrating Beard History Month in December would be unfair to bearded men not named Jesus Christ. I mean, the man already has Christmas.

Instead, I propose that in honor of Charles I of England, another bearded martyr claiming divine influence, Beard History Month should be celebrated in November, the month of the monarch’s birth in 1600. Stubborn, opinionated and unwilling to conform to the changing times, Charles embodied many of the common characteristics associated with those who wear beards. He may have appeared politically backwards and felt it unnecessary to explain his policies, but he stuck with his guns in the face of mounting opposition.

Charles was eventually beheaded after a decade of civil war by the Parliamentarian forces of Oliver Cromwell — a notably hairless man — who had warts on his face to boot. Cromwell was also purported to have been staunchly anti-fun and once made a virulent speech to members of Parliament on the evils of keeping kittens.

Even if Charles didn’t actually possess the Divine Right of Kings, his beard most certainly did. I suppose that’s settled then. Until next November, vive la résistance!

Kevin Fugaro

Fugaro starred in the title role of the Lovers & Madmen production of King Lear which played at the Shanley Pavillion from Feb. 28 to March 2. In a move the Beard Liberation Front surely would have applauded, Fugaro forsook a false beard and grew one in order to play the part. This will be the final featured beard of the week this quarter, but “although the last, not least.” (King Lear 1.1)

On growing: “I started growing it during Thanksgiving and didn’t cut my hair for four or five months.”

On fake beards: “There was the option, but we decided we were going to go all out. I’ve had my self-doubts. I didn’t know if I could do it, but I persevered and refused to shave.”

On past beard experience: “I had had nothing like that, I mean I looked like fucking [out of] The Iceman Cometh. But it was a good experience.”

Damn dirty inspiration: “I would say Moses inspired me. Particularly what’s his name…Charlton Heston. Not his personality, I’d say his beard, which I think was fake which is heartbreaking.

Special thanks to Kana Yoo for the beard tip-off.

This weekend, I experienced what may be the crowning moment of my beard-growing quest. Around 12:30 a.m. CST, Feb. 24, someone likened me to Burt Reynolds. At first, it seemed like a passing comment – the kind you hear at parties once everyone’s loosened up a bit. But it wasn’t. This guy had latched on to some resemblance (dark hair + sport coat + facial hair = Burt Reynolds, apparently) and spent the rest of the night exclaiming “Hey! Burt Reynolds!” every time I passed.

Any comparison to a movie star whose career peaked before most of us were born should be taken with a grain of salt, but there are truly few movie stars who are just as well-known for their body of work as they are for their body of hair.

But Burt Reynolds? I thought everyone had forgotten about him (aside from a small population of aging women with moustache fetishes). Then I remembered that, while my generation may not have seen Deliverance in theaters, we have seen our fair share of SNL’s Celebrity Jeopardy. In all fairness, since Norm Macdonald played Burt Reynolds in the skit, it was more than likely I was being compared to Norm Macdonald as Burt Reynolds as Turd Ferguson, but this deduction failed to burst my balloon. Norm Macdonald is a comedic genius, so it’s all good.

The similarity was apparently so striking that one girl felt the need to covertly take a photo and post it on Facebook the next day, tagging me as Burt Reynolds. The joke was funny for a night, but I don’t think it warranted eternal enshrinement in the social networking hall of fame. But I digress…

As the late Mitch Hedberg once said, “I got to smoke fake pot with Peter Frampton, that’s a cool story. It’s almost as cool as smoking real pot with a guy who looks like Peter Frampton… I’ve done that way more.” I agree. It would be great to be Burt Reynolds, but sometimes just having college students think you are Burt Reynolds is way cooler.

Just a week before the Burt Reynolds incident, my roommate’s mom visited campus and — upon seeing a more hirsute version of the Matt Leib than she had met in September — commented, “Well, this is new.” I don’t know what that was supposed to mean, but my confidence in the beard — that Samson-like swagger — was all but wiped out. It was at that moment I first wanted out of this winter experiment of mine.

But then this crazed kid swooped in and saved my beard from possible destruction by comparing it to Burt Reynolds’ moustache. Just as those baldness treatment infomercials claim to give bald men “a new lease on life,” a comparison to Burt Reynolds will give a man contemplating a shave a new lease on his beard.

Out of this comparison, I have developed a theory. Any aging Hollywood stars reading out there, listen up: It would behoove you to have distinctive facial hair if you want consistent work and reverence into the silver years. Along with Reynolds, perhaps Sean Connery has best employed this little ruse to prolong his career.

Connery (also famously lampooned on SNL) has successfully cultivated a dual image over the decades – that of the smooth-faced James Bond as well as that of his bewhiskered countenance in hits such as Entrapment or The Rock.

Suffice it to say, since the beard has helped Connery to two careers, the combination of male celebrity and facial hair must have rejuvenating properties. Turns out your Indiana Jones didn’t need to bring you that dumb grail after all, Sean; all you ever needed was that handsome beard!

So here’s to you, dude at the party who thought I looked like Burt Reynolds, and to you, girl at the party who agreed with dude at the party that I looked like Burt Reynolds and deemed it necessary to take a picture of me and put it on Facebook. It’s people like you who keep me going.

Sports and facial hair share a long history. From King Kelly to Rollie Fingers to Johnny Damon, some athletes are defined by their facial hair. Some teams take firm stands against facial hair: The New York Yankees and the Cincinnati Reds insist their players remain clean shaven. Other clubs encourage facial hair growth as a way of promoting solidarity and team spirit. Scott Spiezio of the St. Louis Cardinals once went so far as to dye his goatee red. But flagrant facial hair is not limited to athletes. Many fans have found that facial hair is as useful in making a statement from the stands as it is in making one from the dugout.

The fan beard was spawned from the playoff beard – a tradition that originated when many NHL players wouldn’t shave until their team had been eliminated from the playoffs. Like fantasy sports leagues and collecting memorabilia, not shaving is a way for the common fan to feel closer to his sports idol. Combine die-hard fans with the ability to grow facial hair and you get a powder keg of possibility just waiting to explode into a number of oddball promises and rash undertakings.

In July 2004, with the Seattle Mariners mired in one of their worst seasons in years, I boldly declared that I would not shave until the team became winners again. Had I remained true to my promise and not given up seven days (and almost as many losses) later, I would not have touched a razor until June 2007.

While desperate times call for desperate measures, I caution fans against growing beards in protest of losing records. Pogonological promises are dangerous and can call into question a fan’s sanity (or even worse, dedication). Because the growing of fan-beards is such an intricate practice, it must be highly regulated. I have drawn up a some preliminary guidelines for people who would like to take their team spirit to the next level.

Fan-beard rulebook

Rule 1: The growing of the fan-beard shall be reserved for periods during which a team is streaking toward the playoffs or championship and not to be used during desperate stretches or losing seasons. If the party in question decides to grow a beard out of frustration with a losing team, he shall be deemed pathetic, not only for being a fan of said team but also for having an unsightly beard.

Rule 2: A literal and figurative “cutoff” date shall be set when the fan-beard grower commences his beard, as not to obligate the party in question to grow his beard beyond the point of reason or general sanity.

Rule 3a: Fans declaring they will not shave “until the Cubs win the World Series” will be found in violation of Rule 2, yet will not be penalized. Rather, they will be transported to the nearest hospital and examined for mental infirmity.

Rule 3b: After undergoing psychoanalysis and other intensive treatments (including a Clockwork Orange-style exposure to looped footage of Steve Bartman in Game 6), the aforementioned Cubs fan shall be discharged and advised instead to grow out his beard until Lou Piniella receives his first ejection, and/or a Cubs player is found with a corked bat. If said events occur simultaneously, the fan beard shall be left untouched, but all cranial growth shall henceforth be terminated.

A fan beard gone right, or wrong?
Photo by goldberg on Flickr, licensed under the Creative Commons

Rule 4: Any mocking comments or insults directed toward the grower of the fan beard by non-fans or fans of rival teams are to be quantified inversely directly proportionally to the true dedication and passion for the team embodied by the grower. (Derived from Kindergarten Rulebook 12th Ed., Rule 21d. – “I am rubber, you are glue: Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you.”)

Rule 5: Any work-related problems that arise from the fan beard (fines, loss of promotion, firings et al.) shall be compensated for by the beard grower’s friends in the form of beer, stadium concessions, or any combination thereof. General praise of the grower’s awesomeness is also accepted, but shall not take the place of any of the aforementioned amenities.

Rule 6a: In the case of championships won, the grower reserves the right to attribute any and all of the team’s success to his beard. After the celebration has ended and the grower cleanses himself of all traces of beer and/or cheesy poofs, the fan beard shall be shorn and its pieces placed in ornate reliquaries and distributed to the four corners of the land.

Rule 6b: In the case of championships lost or playoff elimination, the grower is absolved of any and all possible blame. He will dutifully shave his beard, but without the use of water or shaving cream, using instead his own tears of sorrow.

The reigning beard king at Northwestern is Laurie Schiller, head women’s fencing coach at Northwestern. He has had his beard since 1969, and there’s even a Facebook group dedicated to it called “There’s Nothing Quite like Laurie Schiller’s Mustache.” A former history professor, Schiller has also put his beard to good use in battle reenactments.

On the beard: “I don’t know what to tell you. I grew this part [chin and moustache] in college as a sophomore trying to look older… it was the 60s, so it was the thing to do. Then I grew the rest of it when I started graduate school because that’s when I could. I’ve been married almost 34 years and my wife’s never seen me without a beard, and she likes the beard.”

Anyone want to challenge this guy? “As far as I know, I might be the only bearded person in the athletic department.”

Fenced in: “[The team] tries to get me to shave it all the time. I told them if they win conference I’ll take [the sides] off, but not the moustache.”

To be honest, I expected people to have little to say when it came to their beards. In the beginning, the Beard of the Week feature struck me as trivial, a little vain and very shallow. Unless I discovered Northwestern’s bearded Narcissus, I figured I was going to be plum out of luck.

But my conversation last week with Chris Wade surprised me. People want to talk about their beards. Wade’s beard lead to a discussion covering the early films of John Carpenter and the radical ideas of Karl Marx (more his sense of style than his Socialism). Asking about someone’s beard is similar to asking a couple how they met. They don’t often downplay it, saying, “Oh, it was nothing special.” Behind every beard there is a story and, as surprising as it may seem, usually a face too.

The story of the beard in many ways legitimizes it, serving as an owner’s permit and validating what others might see as crude. But you may ask, “Uncle Mattie [whiskers lend an aura of sophisticated older relative], whatever is your story?” While there may not be a saga of Antarctic treks by sled or an irrational idolization of a historical figure behind my beard, I have a story. You’re reading it at this very moment.

A person’s Beard Story could fill pages if allowed to grow long enough. If a beard were ever to be novelized, I imagine the result would be positively Dickensian (Charles Dickens, by the way, had a rockin’ beard). The protagonist would no doubt be an orphan or some unfortunate ward whose past is unclear and future uncertain (pick from your choice of Twist, Nickleby or Copperfield). He, like the beard, must rise from nothing in the face of insurmountable odds.

From the beginning, the world is against both beard and boy. The beard must fight persistently against the enticing calls of the shaving industry. Meanwhile, the boy struggles against the demand to conform of industrial England, escaping conflicts by razor-thin margins. Boy and beard eventually emerge from dark and uncertain beginnings and embark on a lifetime’s journey of growth.

But even if you haven’t been orphaned, working since you were six and after dinner you and your friends don’t draw straws to see who must slink up to Stir-Fry Steve to ask, “Please sir, may I ’ave some more?,” despair not! I am certain that for each beard there is a different tale, fraught with uncertainty and excitement and perhaps, if you are lucky, an extra bowl of gruel.

Wilson, who shares his namesake with the greatest catcher in Seattle Mariners history, stopped cheering when the M’s stopped winning, but he remains a huge Seahawks fan. It’s for the love of the team that his beard emerged.

“[This past season] there was a football game between the Seahawks and the Steelers, and my friend bet me that the Steelers would win. Whoever lost would grow a beard, [and the Seahawks lost] so I grew a beard,” Wilson said. “I just had to wear it until Thanksgiving, but then I thought, well it’s getting cold out, maybe I’ll just keep it.”

Wilson said his beard idol is Geoffrey Rush in Pirates of the Caribbean.

Just as Samson’s hair made him strong and George Constanza’s abstinence made him smart, I’ve found that my new facial hair has made me more philosophical, both in mind and in appearance. Name me a philosopher without a beard and I’ll name you three stubbly sophists who could reason him into growing one.

Were I a true social scientist, I would endeavor to find someone who has not shaved since freshman year of high school to act as a sort of control in this experiment. Alas, I am not a scientific man. Suffice it to say, however, a carefully cultivated beard, I believe, will in turn cultivate other aspects of one’s life.

So anyway, yes: mountains.

It dawned on me one evening that growing a beard is very much like climbing a mountain. Neither is an activity you launch into impulsively: Each requires preparation and proper planning. Discovery Channel specials and mediocre movies about mountain climbing have shown that scaling some of the largest peaks in the world is never just a base-camp-to-summit affair. Teams of climbers usually trek part way up the mountain, establish a camp, spend the night and then trek back down to base camp the next day.

This process is repeated as each established camp brings the climbers closer to their ultimate goal of reaching the summit. Such a deliberate method facilitates a safer ascent, allowing the climbers’ bodies a gradual adjustment to the change in oxygen levels at each progressively higher altitude.

Studies conclusively show that more people have died attempting Mt. Everest than those who have attempted a beard. The tally stands at Everest: 207, Beards: 0. Yet a clean-shaven face is also not conquered overnight. Growing a beard, like the ascent of Everest, takes time and reflection.

Despite a long line of elite, bearded scholars, Northwestern’s Department of Philosophy remains surprisingly shiny-faced, with only one and a half of the 11 male professors sporting facial hair (a half a point is awarded, upon review, to Charles W. Mills, John Evans Professor of Moral and Intellectual Philosophy, for his moustache). At least Philosophy Professor Kenneth Seeskin does past philosophers proud by letting his beard grow free.

So, in closing, I implore the Department of Philosophy to perhaps focus less on the musings of Nietzsche and more on his moustache. Because if knowledge comes from anywhere other than a book, it must come from a beard.

Background: Chris Wade has had a beard off and on since his senior year in high school. He usually goes a couple of months growing it out and then shaves it down to nothing and starts over again. This past summer, Wade sported what he likes to call the “Urban Amish,” or Abe Lincoln beard, but has since let it all grow back in.

On beards: “Beards are really hot these days. You see more people growing more than just scruff.”

On “beard” ambition: “When I walk into a room, often among my first observations is who has a better beard than I do. It’s not that I like to brag about it or gain superiority from it, it’s just always been something that I’m kind of proud of.”

Bearded idol: James Brolin as George Lutz in the original Amityville Horror (1979). “[Brolin’s beard] is handsome, but still a big beard…really well-kept but still bushy. It got me thinking, you don’t really see any movies in which the main character has a big beard, unless it’s like he’s lived in the mountains for a year and now he’s coming back and when he rejoins society he’s going to shave it off.”

Future plans: “I’m either going to back to the Abe Lincoln, or the other thing I’m thinking of – the more radical choice – is growing a Karl Marx beard, a huge beard, which would be a long project.”