Beards are, among many things, biblical. In the Torah (Numbers 6 is a good place to look) men and woman would take this vow where they would separate themselves to the LORD for a time and along with not drinking vinegar or wine they would not shave. Now most women can’t grow beards and perhaps that is enough said in that direction. But while in high school it was common knowledge that the women’s swim team didn’t shave all season in an effort to devote themselves to the sport and for the ‘feel of fastness’ at the finals meet where they would shave. The guys would follow suit. Our 14-18 year old beards struggled but they expressed an effort to commit ourselves and amerce our whole being into the struggle of being apart of the team. At finals we all showed up with shaved legs, arms, chests, heads and faces. The preparation was half the fun but the baldness marked a rebirth and a readiness to go and go faster than ever before.
When I was eighteen my beard was mostly blond minus the ‘neard’ area that had produced some low-lights making the experience of growing a beard quite interesting. It would change colors as I spend time in the sun and would always keep me guessing. It was a magical beard. I enjoyed the ability to grow at least a chin patch or half goatee but as my senior year drew to a close I felt a change coming on. I was getting ready to hike the Appalachian Trail and from what I knew about long distance hiking a large beard was a requirement for success. However, what I had come to understand from the years of swimming was that if you wanted to go fast, you shaved. So the night before I was to leave for my epic adventure I shaved the chin and the burns and my head just like I had done for finals. I looked about thirteen and so when my dad dropped me off at the trailhead in Georgia people probably thought he was abandoning me or at least participating in some kind of sick parental disciplinary method. But I seemed excited and focused when I stepped out of the 88’ Olds as I felt the shiftiness of the ground beneath my Nike Spartacus running shoes, and so no one asked questions except one lady. She was facilitating the a group of monks that were gathered around the trailhead looking at the flowers, like monks do. Perhaps she thought I was a monk because I was bald. But I am pretty sure she knew I was a scared teenager because I was starting to cry. I had been so strong through all the goodbyes and now the weight of leaving felt like death…
