The Beard That Changed My Life
Beards are one of those things that match other men, not me.
But like most guys, I've tried. I sported a scraggly mustache for much of the 70s. How that ended you will read below. (Although I wrote about it once before in more detail. Click here.)
Then in my fifties, for a period of about six years, I took the full beard plunge. How that one beard changed my gaijin life forms the content of this humor column from 2011.
For context, here is the unshaven truth of how I look now, and when younger, maybe in my forties.
A dark-haired man with glasses and wearing a black t-shirt
Next is from the Era of the Beard, early in Year One, and then later at full scruff power!
A man wearing a ball cap and glasses and with a full beard, white at the chin
Notes:
"Gaijin" is the Japanese term for "foreigner."
The bit in the column about losing my hair is a blog edition for another day.
The "woman" line, near the end, has to do with gender empowerment in Japanese government and business. In 2011, Japan's ranking was pretty low, but now it's even worse. According to the World Economic Forum, Japan lists as 118th out of 145 countries, the lowest score of all G7 nations and right behind Angola and Senegal. Japan is not always fair to the fairer sex.
Last, I deplore the title my Japan Times editor stuck me with. My own title, above, is far better: The Beard That Changed My Life
The New Foreigner in my 'Hood
Feb 26, 2011
The new foreigner in my neighborhood is…
Me.
Yes, I’m new! At least from the chin up.
Not so long ago, I wrote a column about losing my hair. Well, I've found it. On my face.
I have grown a beard. I now look like Yosemite Sam. I even have his beady eyes.
How this came about is not nearly as interesting as the effect it has had. After over three decades in Japan, I’ve been reborn as a foreign resident.
In recent years, I had become part of the wallpaper, that colorless foreign dude down the street. Now I have leapt to the forefront.
I am like that object hidden in the patterns of an optical illusion. You didn't see me; now you do.
Why grow a beard? My answer: Why not?
The holiday season had arrived and I was bored. And growing hair was more entertaining than watching TV.
It was not my first such foray. Back in the '70s, I was the proud owner of a droopy mustache. My future wife didn't mind; my future mother-in-law did. So I shaved.
The mustache. Long, long ago, like the photo.
In the decades that followed, I sometimes flirted with facial hair, but the growth never progressed past my wife's initial critiques.
Five-day growth: "Eeeeuw." Ten-day growth: "Eeeeeeeeuw." And so on.
But this time the gap on top offset the fuzz below. I overcame the early "eeeuws" and — voila! — I became reborn.
Now I am noticed. People do double-takes. Triple-takes. I hear necks snap.
Who knows what they're thinking? Maybe…
"First I figured it was that goofy-looking foreign guy. Then I thought it was some large, goofy-looking rat. And then I realized it WAS that goofy-looking foreign guy, only now he appears to be homeless."
Old friends have been startled as well. One even blurted out a different name, confusing me with a Biblical figure.
"No, no," I had to explain. "It's me — Tom. Not him."
But the biggest change is that I sense people are somehow kinder to my hairier operating system.
Store clerks used to look away and start to hum. Now they hop over and ask how they can help. They seem to listen harder and smile wider. Almost as if they enjoyed their work.
My analysis is that, rather than a holy man, I resemble someone from a cartoon. A reject from the Disney drawing board. A cross between Jiminy Cricket and a Wookie.
And Japanese adore cartoons.
It is a mistake to think this country fuels itself on rice, soy sauce and raw fish. The nation's more serious craving is for "cuteness." Mickey, Hello Kitty, Pikachu and on and on — Japan just can't get enough.
And now Japan has me. My new cartoon face provides an instant fix for cute addiction. I have become a hairy magnet for all such junkies.
My wife's take is somewhat different.
"Japanese are kind to their elders. That’s all. And that beard makes you look like Father Time."
True, the beard is not golden brown. It's more cotton ball white. At least on the chin.
And when I raise that chin, I do indeed create the “Grandpa" effect.
I notice this most on the trains. People sitting before me will pop up like toasted bread, and then beg me to take their place.
It's a sort of superpower. I have become Beardman, Lord of the Trains.
Would you give your seat to this man?
I told this all to a colleague, one with similar long years in Japan, a friend who knows how the limelight here always seems to fall on foreigners fresh from the plane, not on old-timers, like us.
"If you want to stand out,” I said, “There's your solution — grow a beard!"
"But... I'm a woman."
Talk about not getting noticed.
Yet, her general idea is spot on: a beard is not for everyone.
In fact, I'm not sure it's for me. I am still somewhat stunned to see my face in the mirror and once or twice have even beseeched myself to take a seat.
So who knows. I could shave it off.
And be reborn once more!
A man wearing a ball cap and a blue sweat jacket with a zipper. He sits in a coffee shop.
Two selfies showing the death of "The Beard." First in the final desperate trim and then "all gone." Interesting here is that both shots were taken in the same spot, my Starbucks haunt in those days. My eyewear is gone too, but only because I was awaiting a new pair from my optometrist. You don't need glasses -- or a beard -- to drink coffee.
© Thomas Noah Wood
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