What does your beard say about you?

Indeed, for much of late modern history, the barbigerous were regarded with scepticism. During the 19th century, the European monarchies associated beards with dangerous radicals. So did the dangerous radicals. Historians tell us that Marx and Engels grew their famously fulsome facial hair, at least in part to symbolize their rejection of middle-class morality.

In the US, a beard was often seen as a symbol of the Abolitionist movement. John Brown sported one. So did John C. Frémont, the anti-slavery Republican who lost the 1856 presidential election. Abraham Lincoln did not grow his beard until after he was elected in 1860, but it was in full bloom by the time he took the oath of office — more evidence, for Southerners, of the threat he posed to their way of life. But once the 16th president took the oath, the fashion gathered steam among the nation’s leaders until, in Gore Vidal’s words, “all sorts of odd excrescences had begun to blossom on political faces.” Republican newspapers ran advertisements for potions that would help ambitious males cover those bare chins. Even editorial writers got into the act, praising the “magical influences” of those who wanted “beards or whiskers.” Soon, the Victorians made beards safe to wear, even for the elites. Doctors wrote learned essays insisting that beards were good for male health.

In the early 20th century, the culture moved the other way. Suddenly, beards were bad again. Many writers attribute the shift to the rise of the safety razor, which was patented in 1904. But the historian Christopher Oldstone-Moore, in his 2017 volume Of Beards and Men: The Revealing History of Facial Hair, argues that the commonly told story confuses cause and effect: The new invention caught on because the popularity of whiskers was already fading. Oldstone-Moore links the decline of the beard to the rise of urbanism and corporatism. The cleanly shaved face became a device through which men could “display the virtues of a new century: youthfulness, energy, cleanliness, and reliability.”

By 1976, when owner George Steinbrenner commanded that Yankee players henceforth be clean-shaven, the nation’s aversion to beards was complete. Once again, the bristly chin had come to symbolize radicalism, even membership in the fabled counterculture. Fidel Castro had a beard. Che Guevara had a beard. A syndicated columnist who visited the East Village in lower Manhattan described it as a hang-out for “misfit artists” and “bearded Negroes.” When Jerry Rubin wrote that Karl Marx was “history’s most infamous, bearded, longhaired, hippie commie freek [sic] agitator,” the Yippie founder meant every word as complimentary. The historian Anthony Esler entitled his 1971 monograph on rebellious young people Bombs, Beards, and Barricades. The few sports figures who sported beards — Reggie Jackson to the fore — were seen as politically defiant and, therefore, problematic.

Worried employers adopted rules limiting male facial hair, and, back then, the courts largely acquiesced. The inability of the bearded to get jobs was mocked in popular music. Experts advised men in the job market to shave their faces. In January 1985, with President Ronald Reagan poised to begin his second term, the inaugural committee created a kerfuffle by advertising for “attractive, clean-cut, all-American types” to perform at the celebration. Critics insisted that the description was code for “White.” After Diana Ross canceled her scheduled performance, the committee backed down, explaining, in classic Washington-speak, that the ad had been placed without being checked by higher-ups, that there could not have been any discriminatory intention because lots of minority performers had been hired, and that the phrase in question actually meant “pleasant” and “outgoing.”

But the point was made. Beards were still out. And not only on Steinbrenner’s Yankees. During the hearings over Reagan’s 1987 effort to put Robert Bork on the Supreme Court, Senator Howell Heflin asked the nominee to explain why he had a beard. (To be fair, Heflin concluded the colloquy with a perhaps overly honest apologia: “There’s nothing wrong with it because there are a lot of bearded voters out there that I don’t want to make mad.”)

Which brings us to today. According to Oldstone-Moore, the man who proudly sported a beard in the late 19th century was “excited about its moral force, in particular its power to express masculine power and authority.” Since then, we’ve come full circle. A 2015 study found women somewhat less likely to vote for male candidates with facial hair. On the basis of appearance alone, hirsute politicians were considered more masculine but also less likely to hold “feminist” positions on issues ranging from abortion to sex discrimination.

Social scientists say there’s a continuing bias against bearded applicants. When no-beard policies fall most heavily on Black and Hispanic men, they are often unlawful. Nevertheless, judicial sympathy for hirsute plaintiffs has been far from unlimited, and recent research suggests that bearded men still face headwinds in job-seeking. (Although not necessarily in all professions.)

Beards in the White House, beards in the Royal Family, beards on Wall Street, beards in tech, and, yes, beards on the Yankees players (if a bit late). If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was still the 1970s. But it isn’t. Ours is, alas, a more masculine era, aggressive and angry. I hope the new affection for beards doesn’t make things worse.

One last note. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that I’ve worn a beard for decades. Maybe in college, I considered heavy facial hair a mark of the radical beliefs I used to profess, but nowadays, my small goatee carries no ideological significance. From time to time, I consider shaving my beard, but I forbear for the best and simplest reason of all: my wife likes how it looks.

Credit: Bloomberg