Most people that know me have never seen my face. Not most of my friends. Not even my wife. As I write this, I’m not even sure I remember what it looks like.

I have worn a beard since my mid twenties, I think. It’s been so long I’m not sure. I like the way I look with one. Not so much without. It is a part of me. As such, I feel it is as much a part of my face as my nose, or my eyes. Yet, because I wear my beard by choice and it can be easily shorn, it is not quite the same.

My beard also serves many functions. For most of the Minnesota year, it shields against the chill. It helps to hide imperfections. The scar I have on the underside of my chin from the falls I took as a child. Some of the splotches of Seborrhoeic dermatitis I quietly suffer. And, in this way, it is a mask that I use to disguise a face I feel ugly and scared and weathered.

Perhaps it is time to give those I love at least a glimpse of what hides beneath. So that I can say, “You have seen my face. All of it’s character and faults. Thus, you know me.”