I Apparently Have Emotional Scars

The memory of this conversation always makes me laugh. Then again, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised being a fairly bohemian individual, employed by a highly conservative firm. I know some of these guys don't always know what to think of me with my paisley shirts, ever-changing facial hair and cowboy boots, but that's okay. I don't mind. I do my job and they're pleased with what I produce, so it's come to be accepted. Great.

A few weeks ago, fully bearded (think Zach Galifinakis or Robinson Crusoe) and shaggy haired (it's about at my shoulders now), I poked my head into one of our sales director's offices to discuss a charitable project I was helping him with. Let's call him Ned. My boss was in there with him. Let's call him Boss. The conversation went something like this.

Me: I need to go over these designs with you. Give me a call when you guys are done.

Ned: Wait a minute.

Me: What?

Ned: Get in here. (I do.) Stand right there and look at me. (I did.)

(This is followed by about 10 seconds of awkward silence. ... I don't like it.)

Me: This is weird.

Ned: What the hell is wrong with you?

Me: Huh?

Ned: What are you hiding?

Me: I don't understand what you're...

Ned: You're hiding something. I want to know what.

Me: I'm not hiding anything. What the hell? Boss, I--

Boss: Nope. Leave me out of it.

Ned: Do you know what my dad did for a living?

Me: No idea.

Ned: He was the police commissioner for the city of Cleveland.

Me: Okay.

Ned: He taught me how to read people. After decades of service on the Force, he had this theory about men who grow out their beards.

Me: Yeah?

Ned: He told me, "A man with a beard is hiding either a physical scar, or an emotional scar."

Me: I don't have any scars, Ned.

Ned: Well, not any physical scars, obviously. You're a very good-looking young man when you don't look like Ted Bundy.

Me: Thanks. I don't have any emotional scars either.

Ned: And yet, you have a mass of hair covering your face.

Me: I just felt like growing it out. I like it.

Ned: Men don't just 'like' beards. It's like a big, dead animal. A big, dead animal right on your face.

Me: I do. And no, it's not.

Ned: Nope, you're emotionally scarred. I can sense it. So let's get to the bottom of this issue. Right now.

Me: I'm not emotionally scarred.

Ned: Is it because of a girl?

Me: No, there's no girl. I'm not emotionally scarred.

Ned: Do you have Daddy issues? Mommy issues?

Me: What? No.

This dialog, question/yes & no answer format, went on for another ten or so rounds. My boss, standing silent to the side of us, shifted his neck back and forth, as if he were at Wimbledon. Finally, I cut Ed's little questionnaire clean off.

Me: Okay, do you want to know why I like growing out my beard?

Ned: I already know, but go ahead. Enlighten me.

Me: Sure. When I was little, like five, I saw my grandpa shaving. I thought it was the coolest thing. So I say to him, "Grandpa, I can't wait till I get to shave too."

He looks at me with the most grave, dire expression on his face and tells me, "Kid," because he always referred to me as Kid...never Brian...not once, "Kid, don't ever say such a thing again. Do you hear me?" he warned. "Never."

At this point he puts down his razor and kneels down in front of me, clasping his hands over my shoulders to desperately accentuate his point in a most dramatic fashion. An uncharacteristic gesture for him, I might add.

"Shaving is the bane of my existence," he continued. "I hate it. I despise it. If society and your Grandma would let me, I would never shave again. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Grandpa," I replied.

"Kid, promise me you'll never again look forward to the day you start start shaving," he desperately concludes to me. "Because once that day comes, you'll be at it nearly every single day for the rest of your life. Enjoy your pre-pubescent freedom while you have it."

(Ned is looking at me, confidently unconvinced.)

Me: And with that, I decided that I didn't like shaving. To this day, I've grown to hate it. Even when I shave, I don't really shave; I clip. It's just me. He was right. In addition, I don't have a wife and I don't really care what 'society' finds acceptable in the realm of facial hair, so I let it go. And I have fun with it. I can trim it into fu-man-choos and Wolverine chops. I can grow it long, or I can buzz it to scruff. Hell, I could cut my sideburns into a profile of Alfred Hitchcock if I wanted to. I. Don't. Care.

Ned: So you have Grand-daddy issues. Got it. Now go shave your beard.

I tell him I can't, that his wife told me she loved it last night. He laughs and flicks me off. I turn around and walk back to my desk. He still tells me to shave nearly every time he sees me. We're still friends. I still have a beard.

Good to know you, Ned. Because of you, I apparently have emotional scars.