Beards Are for Blowhards

Beards and goatees are the facial equivalent of distressed jeans. They are worn to project rugged authenticity while quietly being curated with an artisanal beard oil named Lumberjack Whisper. These facial jungles were once the mark of mystics, outlaws, and philosophers; now, they’re more likely to appear on a man who says “grill master” unironically and owns a limited-edition IPA koozie.

The fascination with facial hair started as a mark of rebellion. Somewhere between Jack Kerouac and Jack Daniels, the beard became shorthand for masculinity, wisdom, and artisanal coffee appreciation. What was once a symbol of philosopher-poets and hard-living outlaws, however, has been commandeered by every other man whose Spotify wrapped includes Joe Rogan and Lo-fi Chill Beats for Productivity.  As a result, according to a YouGov study, for the first time in history more men (54 per cent) report they have a beard or a mustache.

Beards are like cargo shorts: utilitarian, outdated, and hiding god only knows. What began as a nod to wilderness survival has become batshit performance art; and while some faces wear them well, far too many men have treated their faces like a public art installation gone rogue.

The goatee, meanwhile, deserves its own chapter in the annals of questionable grooming. It suggests a man who wants to appear both mysterious and managerial—a Darth Vader of middle management. It says, “I’m edgy,” but also “I make spreadsheets that feature transition animations.” Somewhere between midlife crisis and Marvel cosplay, the goatee hovers uncertainly, like it, too, has commitment issues. It whispers, “I want to look like Tony Stark,” but ends up screaming, “I own too many Bluetooth earpieces.”

Arguably the greatest backlash against beards and goatees comes not from barbers or philosophers, but from the women quietly ranking society’s dating pool with the ruthless precision of a casting director for a mid-tier HBO drama.

Here is one verdict from the court of public opinion—where the jury is composed of stylish women sipping matcha, swiping left on a sea of men who look like they’re smuggling raccoons on their chins. On a sun-drenched rooftop bar in Brooklyn, he approaches with confidence, his beard meticulously shaped to resemble a Doric column. She arches an eyebrow, sips her negroni, and thinks, “Sorry, I don’t date guys who exfoliate with beard wax and quote Joe Rogan unironically. If I wanted to kiss a cactus, I’d vacation in Arizona.”