I Grew a Beard, and Now I’m a Real Man!

I recently turned 40, and like any self-respecting (or not-so-respecting) man entering his fifth decade, I decided it was time for a midlife crisis. Sports cars don’t appeal, I don’t fancy travelling the globe, and an affair with a younger woman is off the cards for a number of reasons. So, I went small fry and started growing a beard.

Admittedly, I am only two weeks into my new bearded life. Fear not, this post isn’t the equivalent of someone getting married and writing a “Why Marriage is a Struggle and Why I’m Great at It” how-to guide. I have no tips on growing or maintaining facial hair. But I have had some complex feelings around growing a beard and what that says about my masculinity.

Why did I decide to start growing a beard? Besides the half-joking midlife crisis thing, I was inspired by going to my brother’s improv group. He has had various styles and lengths of facial hair over the years, and upon seeing him there with his newly short beard I thought, “Huh, that suits him.” And since my brother is also my identical twin, I thought it might suit me too. I also knew that he/we could achieve full coverage naturally and quickly, and if I could persevere through the itchy stage, it could all work out well.

And yet, when my usually clean-shaven face pretty speedily became a sea of bristles … it felt like I was cosplaying as a man. Like finally I could be seen as A Real Live Boy.

For clarity, I don’t experience significant gender dysphoria. I have never really doubted that I am a man. But I have also never felt like I belonged in the same category as other men; I have never been masculine.

That’s something I usually feel fine about, because I don’t believe femininity is a negative thing — and, as a middle-class man in South England, I am surrounded by other men who aren’t alpha males. None of my male friends have, in the memorable words of Rachel from Friends, “just come in from branding cattle.” 

Being a feminine man, I began to feel like a fraud after a few days passed, and “He’s probably forgotten to shave” turned into “He’s made a definite chin-hair choice.” Would people think I was pretending to be more masculine than I actually am? Would people wonder if I were growing this beard to prove a point about some longed-for masculinity? But more than that — was I claiming an identity, with a beard, that I have no right to?

Was my outside no longer matching my inside?

I didn’t expect any of these thoughts to rear their head. I thought people might comment on my beard, and that I’d either like or dislike it and move on accordingly. It hadn’t crossed my mind that something as simple as putting my razor back on the shelf would get me in my head about masculinity.

A good friend of mine shared some thoughts when I mentioned this to him. “Facial hair is something decidedly masculine, similar to how breasts are decidedly feminine,” he wrote. “When we were young boys, we learned to recognize facial hair as a sign that a guy had reached puberty. It’s intrinsically tied with our awareness of adult masculinity.”

I appreciate this friend’s care and thoughtfulness, and his wisdom. I appreciate him so much that I’ve quoted his “recognize” as he wrote it, even when it pains my “recognise”-loving British heart. I’ve never seen my dad without a beard, and my (straight) brother has had facial hair of one variety or another for almost his entire adult life. My beard means I’m hitting a milestone that the straight men in my family have already had for decades. I’m doing something that only adult males can do. And my hormones and genes that make this possible don’t know that I feel like something of a fraud in doing so.

Look, of course I’m overthinking this. Deep down, I know that none of my friends and colleagues are reflecting, “Wow, now that Simon has a beard, I guess he is a Real Man. This really changes things.” Nor, for that matter, are they thinking, “Did Simon really think he could fool us with some scruff? We know he’s Not A Real Man deep down.”

These are fabrications in my head.

I also know that when God created men and women — and when He determined that I would be a man — He didn’t care about whether I ever had a beard. He certainly doesn’t think of me as any more or less His son, dependent on whether I shave.

And He isn’t confused about what’s on the inside versus what’s on the outside. He knows my inmost mind and heart and soul, and He’s a lot more interested in those places than my chin.

Those places are what can make me a man of God. I’ve always struggled to see myself as one of the men, but I can be one of His sons.

Isn’t it strange how something as simple as a post-birthday grooming shake-up can bring out these self-reflections on gender and masculinity? That, I suppose, was the true midlife crisis I didn’t see coming.

How do you feel about facial hair and your own masculinity? Do you feel like you’re as much of a man as the men around you?