Hairy Commute

Imagine that, one morning, you are engaged in your routing morning commute. The sun is shining, traffic is moving, and you are rapidly approaching your exit. Ever the conscious driver, you faithfully glance to your left and to your right every few moments, just in case the vehicles near you happen to be drifting into your lane. As you take a routine look to your right, your gaze is suddenly struck by a sight so unsettling that you nearly swerve into the next lane yourself. This near-loss of control is disturbing, but even more upsetting is the cause of the peril: The driver of the white four-door sedan.

Said driver is a woman. In most ways, she appears to have the stereotypical female features: long hair, delicate wristwatch, largish eyes, woman’s blouse, etc. There is one area – however – in which she differs from the normal woman. This particular female is sporting a beard.

I am sorry to say that this image was – in fact – a reality for me this very morning. Imagine my surprise when I spotted this undeniably unusual facial feature on an otherwise groomed fellow woman. Imagine also the risk that I posed when I was forced to avert my eyes from the road for extended periods of time in order to thoroughly study the situation.

The driver was not alone. She had a male companion with her, and he seemed very much at ease in her company. His arm was extended along the back of her seat, and he leaned in toward her a bit. She seemed to be ignoring him, for the most part, and was instead focused on the road before her. This was fortunate – for me – for two reasons: 1 – because it allowed me to study the profile of her face/beard quite well, and 2 – because it increased the odds that – should I veer slightly out of my lane (a distinct possibility when I was so rarely looking at it) she would be more likely to notice and alert and/or avoid me.

The beard itself was nothing flashy. I’ve seen more impressive specimens on 13-year-old boys. No, the accessory on its own held no value. In combination with the sex of its bearer, however, it became nearly wondrous. In terms of size, it was remarkable in one way: It was nearly a cube. I would estimate that it was one inch in every direction – both width and length. This made it – frankly – quite noticeable. It was difficult to determine the exact color, as the windows of the vehicle were ever-so-slightly tinted, but I would venture to guess that it was a medium ashy blond – perhaps a shade or two darker than the woman’s hair.

This entire experience brought on a number of questions. First and foremost, I could not help but wonder if her companion was her “significant other” and – if so – whether or not he found her facial hair attractive. This question has many layers, depending upon where you take it, and it’s best to not explore too much of it. Second, I debated her reasons for choosing to sport the thing. It would be simple enough to shave or wax it. Was she rebelling against society’s unfair and unrealistic expectations of women’s appearances? Was she hoping to become a man, and had she started taking hormones? If so, why was she not altering her attire or make-up?

Unfortunately, resolution was not destined to be mine in this case. It wasn’t long before I reached my exit and left this woman – and her beard – to continue with her life. The effect of what I had seen was, however, long-lasting. As the day passed, I found myself considering this unusual female and her motives for defying the pressures of a culture that – undeniably – dictates that women and facial hair do not mix.

Had I the ability to grow such a beard, I thought to myself, and the strength and desire to wear it about, I think that I would dye it different colors. It would be brilliantly easy, as it’s such a small area. Much like toe and fingernails, I could change it with the season or holidays. Ah yes… I thought, conjuring a picture in my mind, I can see it now… Bright red for the Christmas season, deep blue to celebrate the depth of January, soft yellow to welcome spring… The possibilities are without end.

I daresay, I am beginning to lament my lack of beard.