The beard is back

I am not referring to a person used as a date or partner to conceal one’s sexual orientation, but rather to the straggly chin-curtain that now adorns even the most beautiful of faces.

These days it’s hard to name a handsome celebrity that has not defiled his otherwise chiselled jaw with unkempt face fungus.  David Beckham, Leonardo DiCaprio, Brad Pitt and Mel Gibson have all joined the ranks of the undercover brothers, offending my eyes with the kind of whiskers not seen since Brian Blessed.  A recent picture of Joaquin Phoenix makes it hard to spot the end of his hair and the start of his mobile crumb-catcher.  It’s not a good look.

I’m sorry if this seems harsh, but beards render a face unkissable.  For a start, I cannot shake the belief that the visage beneath is filthy, since one is hardly in a position to give it a quick once over with a flannel.  They are also rough and spikey up close.  When I close my eyes and offer up my face for a big smackeroo, the last thing I want to feel is a gentle scouring with a brillo pad. And then there is the constant fear of breaking away to breathe, only to find I have been gifted with yesterday’s breakfast.

Pondering this problem over cocktails with a friend, I wondered aloud why it was that I couldn’t get over my phobia of mutton chops. “Mr Twit”, she said.  It was like Paul on the road to Damascus.

When I was eight or nine years old I loved Roald Dahl stories, and of course, The Twits.  That vile couple whose desire to torture and maim each other was revoltingly compelling.  Reading about their appalling treatment of each other was like watching a car crash.  The Quentin Blake illustration of Mr Twit reveals the perfect villain: boggly eyes; crooked teeth, and the huge bristly beard, studded with cornflakes and the tail of a slimy sardine.  (I’ve often wondered if Abu Qatada modelled his look on Mr Twit, but I digress.) It’s no wonder I’m traumatised.

All baddies since then have looked the same.  Beards are the uniform of the untrustworthy, all pirates or terrorists or drug dealers.  If they were honest they would not need to cover their mouths, and certainly not with a week’s worth of meals. 

Dating puts these things into sharper focus.  Readers will recall that I am disinclined to date minors, and it would seem that those with a built in flavour-saver are also on the “no” list.