Beardy Weirdy


Beards. Love them or hate them, they’re everywhere at the moment. Achingly fashionable hipsters have them so they must be cool. Damn, even George Clooney has been seen wearing face fuzz! This story is about an unusual phobia, the fear of facial hair.


My name is Claire and I have an irrational fear of beards. There I’ve said it, now go ahead and laugh like everyone else. I know it’s peculiar but that’s the thing about phobias; you can’t explain where they come from.

Growing up in the 70s was difficult when long hair was fashionable and if a man didn’t have a beard, he’d at least have a porn star moustache or huge mutton chop sideburns. To this day I can’t hear “I Wish It Could be Christmas Every Day” without feeling a little panicky remembering Roy Wood’s long, frazzled beard on the Christmas Top of the Pops. I don’t recall what he actually looked like but that beard haunts my dreams around the festive season.

I’ve pondered at length about where the fear might have originated. Was I spooked by a hirsute well-wisher looming over my pram? Did I confuse bearded men with the Big Bad Wolf from Little Red Riding Hood? Certainly when I watched the film Company of Wolves when I was a teenager, I became very distrustful of men whose eyebrows met in the middle. I’m sure that’s why I’ve never fancied Liam Gallagher.

The 80s weren’t much better for someone with my unusual phobia. Beards weren’t fashionable but designer stubble was. As well as suit jacket sleeves rolled up to the elbow and eye-searingly bright colours, cultivating a time-consuming unshaven look was considered cool. Just think George Michael. My first few halting encounters with the opposite sex were marred by prickly facial hair (theirs, not mine, I hasten to add) and I tried to persuade myself that they weren’t really beards but who was I trying to kid?

Halcyon years followed as beards became unfashionable again. Goatees threatened to become popular until everyone realised how ridiculous they looked. I had my pick of clean-shaven men, fell in love and married one of them and settled down to live happily ever after. Sadly, a fairytale ending wasn’t to be when I discovered that my husband didn’t believe in monogamy and was still sowing his wild oats far and wide.

This left me not-so-young, free and single in my late thirties. It was extremely daunting getting back in the dating saddle, so to speak, but there were still some men out there. Older, not necessarily wiser, and with a lot more emotional baggage but they were willing to keep playing the dating game. Then disaster struck and it was all Jeremy Paxman’s fault.

Paxo grew a beard and it was all over social media. He was even nominated for “Beard of the Year” by the Beard Liberation Front, if you can believe such a thing. Although he is about as far away from being a style icon as you can get, this act of laziness seems to have been the catalyst for other men to follow suit. I knew I was in trouble when I noticed that young, bearded men were being used to advertise stuff on TV as if it was perfectly normal! Beards were suddenly everywhere just as I was taking the first tentative steps in my search for love.

I was invited to a dinner party by my old friend, Sarah. She explained that her husband’s friend, Matt, would be there to make up numbers but it wasn’t a set-up. Not at all. I laughingly accepted, looking forward to an evening of good food and wicked gossip.

I arrived at Sarah and Dave’s promptly and could hear laughter as I rang the doorbell. Dave answered the door and ushered me through to the lounge. There stood Matt, tall and good looking but for one major flaw. He had a beard. As the evening progressed I realised I liked him. A lot. He was funny and had a lovely smile. He would have been perfect if not for the facial hair.

Matt and I exchanged numbers at the end of the evening and I spent a couple of days alternating between hoping that he would and wouldn’t call. On the one hand he was attractive, funny and charming and on the other hand he had a beard! He eventually did make contact and we arranged to go out for dinner. I decided that I would be honest and explain about my phobia as early as possible and address the issue.

We’d chosen to meet at a curry house, both trying to pretend this wasn’t a “date” date and that we hadn’t made such an obvious connection. I was shown to a table where someone was already sitting. I turned to the waiter in confusion, about to explain that there’d been a mistake, when Matt stood up and greeted me warmly. I did a double take; the beard had gone! I stood open mouthed as Matt explained, “When Sarah said you didn’t like beards, I didn’t realise that meant you have a phobia of them.” I realised that my goldfish impersonation made me look like the village idiot so closed my mouth. “I fancied a change and I’m sure those new fangled moisturisers will help me cope with the shaving rash.” He smiled his lovely, non-beardy smile.


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