All three of our sons showed up at our house for Labor Day with full beards. I don’t think my husband will ever quite recover. Through the years he has adamantly declined to grow a beard: Too itchy, too much bother to keep it neat, and he has no intention of looking like his Amish grandfather, thank you.
My sons do not have that familial image fresh in their minds. They are simply having fun, playing with their appearances.
Over the years my oldest son has tried everything from a short beard to no beard. This time he had a mountain man’s beard. Neatness is the least of his worries.
Like his older brother, every time my third son started a beard he needed a job, so he shaved it off for job interviews. He has had his current job almost a year now. Last month his facial hair was a simple goatee. This time he showed up with a trim but full beard. The surprise for big and little brother was that middle brother has also grown a beard. He started to grow one in the past, but, every time he skipped shaving more than a couple of days, his octogenarian land lady verbalized her displeasure and discomfort around unshaven men. She preferred that the men in her life be clean shaven. He respected her wishes and remained clean shaven.
However, when he came home to live while he works on his second master’s degree program, he asked, “Mom, do you mind if I grow a beard?” I told him I didn’t. Actually, although my father never tried wearing a beard, both my brothers have had beards, mustaches and sideburns. Through the years their looks have changed as much as my sister’s. Besides I figure as an adult, the decision is his, not mine.
My three sons spent their Labor Day visit comparing their beards. I watched with amusement as they brushed the beards clean during and after meals, teased each other about the logistics of keeping a beard, and pulled on their chin hairs in an attempt to look wise and profound as they talked. Sunday afternoon, I asked them to sit together on the couch for a group photo. I wanted a picture of my three “twenty-something” sons all finally mature enough to grow a healthy beard.
They cooperated fully. Preening and posing to insure I got the best possible shot of their glorious accomplishments. The women folk and grandchildren squeezed in around them for the last several shots.
The next week I cornered folks to show off the family pictures. Besides making sure everyone saw the cute pictures of the newest Hershberger, I also pulled out photos of my bearded ones. “That’s my oldest son. He converted and became an Orthodox Christian. He has a bushy Orthodox beard. This is my middle son who moved home after three years near Amish country. He has an Amish beard: Full with no mustache. And this is my youngest son with the trim beard. He has not quite decided what he prefers. The last time I saw him, he had a goatee. And this is my daughter. She doesn’t have a beard.”
And if she ever does have one – my husband and I, both, will go into shock.