The Beard is Always Bushier on the Other Side

My husband is growing his beard out.

See, in the fourteen years I have known Jon, he has always had a beard. It is as cyclic as the seasons – the scruffy brush on a tanned face in the summer, a wild Chia-pet thing during hunting season that makes him look like an extra from Braveheart, a neatly trimmed Tony Stark goatee in the fall. But suddenly I wanted it gone.

Variety is the spice of life (especially my life) and shaving is not a big deal. It was the reason I came up with.

The beard had suddenly joined my nonsensical “If” list. Other notable entries to the If list have been the following:

• If I had a really nice desk, I would finish this novel.
• If I wasn't spending all my time at home teaching, doing laundry and tending five active kids, I would be thinner (and possibly even be able to fly! Be able to prove Einstein's theories! Have an immaculate house!)
• If I was wearing/doing/accomplishing <insert geographical location, job title or brand of haute couture cosmetics>, I would be happier than I am now.
• If <country> was stamped in my passport, life would be perfect.
• If the kids were older...<insert wildly improbable goal>
• If I had more money, I could <fill in altruistic mission>.
• If I had more time alone (this one is always joined with – 'I feel so disconnected!')

So the beard joined the list of crazy. If it was gone, I could run the back of my finger over a smooth face, I would kiss him without brush burn, I could see that Ken doll cleft chin in all its glory. In other words, it joined my list of “I would be happier than I am now if something other than me changed.”

So he shaved, and, like any other things from my crazy “If” list, I realized that contentment and happiness runs deep underneath our lives, like the secret rivers of blood that course under the hair and dermis and connective tissue. It is less affected by our surface than our surface is affected by it.

So he shaved, and while I liked the new look, the face of all my memories wasn't there. The one that got teary at the Muppets movie, that face that came into focus while I staggered slowly out of anesthesia, the one that laughs with me at awkwardfamilyphotos.com. The face from all the incandescently proud hunting pictures, the face pressed up against a new baby's cheeks. Isn't it funny what a few facial hairs will do?

It reminded me again that in this ennui of life – the discontent we can find in the long stretches of living and the ongoing sacrifice of adult life – the Ifs can build up, sometimes making us want to change things around us when what we should be changing is us. The beard is little and insignificant, but sometimes restlessness makes us want to change big things – marriages, homes, friendships. Discontentment is a creeping vine that keeps us from living today's adventure. If always look forward to a mythical future; they never look down at the yellow green shoots of grass under our bare feet today.

So when Jon came home from his fishing trip to Cape May on Saturday, as golden as a child on summer vacation, with that dark stubble all over his face, and he said “Should I shave it?”, I didn't hesitate a second in my reply. I wanted back the face that I loved.

Well, there's one thing off my If list.