He that hath no beard is less than a man

I shaved this morning. Not my usual futile pruning, but something altogether more significant.

I've been rocking the full beard for about two years now. I like it. People say I look like Jon Favreau (the actor/director rather than the Obama speechwriter). They're wrong; I don't. But I can live with the comparison.

(In fact, this blog has been written entirely when I've been bearded. I wonder if it will make any difference...)

Recently however, I've been feeling like I wanted to return to my babyface days. I don't know why. Maybe I was worried about what was happening under the beard. All kinds of transformations could have been taking place.

There could be satanic messages under there. My skin might have turned green. There might have been a long lost Malteser, living in a makeshift beard-hut, bald and venerable, telling tales of what it was like before the dense, black forest engulfed the pink and doughy land.

I didn't find any of those things. But I did take the opportunity to try out a variety of looks. My only regret is that I didn't think of trying the Lemmy-esque long moustache/sideburns combo. Maybe next time.

So, for the sake of comparison, here I am before any shaving took place:


I think I'm making some kind of point here. And I'm very happy about it.

"But of course, Schopenhauer would have agreed with you - if reluctantly!"

Moments after this: a round of applause and enchanted sighs from all and sundry.

Anyway, this morning's shave proved to be quite difficult. The hair was tenacious and reluctant to move. The venerable Malteser had organised a protest, and the local paper had been called in to cover the event. As with most protests, it was ineffective, and I finally managed to complete the work.

Stage One was the traditional moustache. It was never intended to be permanent - which was lucky. I looked like a corrupt policeman from 1909. My attempt to modernise the look with a suit jacket brought me all the way up to Miami in 1982. The sleaze is palpable:


I don't think I'll be trying that one out again.

As anyone who has shaved of their facial hair will tell you, Stage Two is obvious:



This is always a tricky one. This idea was entirely stolen from Richard Herring, whose Edinburgh show this year will be called 'Hitler Moustache'.

His attempt at replicating the Führer was much more successful than mine. He has a better intense evil stare. Also, my moustache was slightly lopsided.

I tried to suave up the whole Hitler look with a bit of levity, but the evil shone through:


Genocide has never been so cool.

I think I'll leave the discussion of moustache politics to Mr Herring. This look doesn't really suit someone with my shape of head. I look like a poorly-painted egg at a BNP bake sale.

So in the end, I got rid of it all. It was fun to remove the last of it, and let my upper lip take its first tentative steps, blinking into the sunlight:


The good thing about shaving off your beard is you immediately look younger. And less like a terrorist. Which is good and bad. I think people found the fanatical Islamist look to be a bit of a turn-on (women love dangerous men). Maybe I'll just start wearing a ticking rucksack.

It was an interesting experiment. But I think I'll start regrowing my beard immediately. I miss the comfort of my face-fur.

Also, I don't want to have to go through my motives for shaving with everyone I know. As you can tell from this long-winded explanation, it's complicated.

If I try to abbreviate the story to: "Malteser - Policeman - Sleazeball - Hitler -Terrorist", I'll get some funny looks.

So, the growth begins.

I used to say to people: "to shave would be an awfully big adventure!"

But I was wrong.

It's the beard.

To beard would be an awfully big adventure!

(Although admittedly one that makes little grammatical sense).