I had to have my passport renewed recently, which involved making a major decision. When I’d last seen the inside of a photo-booth, I had stubble. Now, there was a full beard. If I resisted the razor, and had my luxuriance endorsed by Her Britannic Majesty’s secretary of state, it was here to stay. And — it is. I wasn’t going to be persuaded by any amount of “peak beard” editorials and hairless naysayers. I love my beard: it gives the illusion of a chin, where none existed before. I get agreeable attention, where little existed before. And it’s opened up a whole world of grooming that I barely knew existed, from hot towel treatments to balms and unguents scented with bay rum.
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