Santa Claus?

I have always had a thing for facial hair.

Perhaps it’s because I hit puberty at seventeen, and was the last person able to grow facial hair in High School. Perhaps it’s because I had it rough in the acne department, and felt like facial hair could cover whatever scarring might exist from all the activity my face endured. Perhaps it’s because I have always looked about ten years younger than I really am, and the bristles effortlessly add maturity. Perhaps it’s because I can…

I have had the stasche, the goatee, the perpetual five-o’clock-shadow, the three day I-don’t-really-care-how-I-look-but-spent-twenty-minutes-trimming-this-perfectly, the chin strip, the mutton burns, and even the late 1800’s beard without mustache (for a day…)

But last summer I started letting it go. Then I was cast as none-other-than Santa in a local production of Elf, the Musical. The director left it up to me whether I wanted to go real-beard or fake-beard, and I embraced the growth. At first, like one would imagine, it got in the way. All the time. But as my wife showed very little sign of dissatisfaction, and as the attention to the beard swelled, so, too did my attachment to it. The musical came and went (and was a blast!) and my excuse for the beard was no longer justified…

For several months I rationalized the enduring, scruffy, presence by the evident fact that my wife liked it. Until she told me she didn’t. After that, I mentally and emotionally prepared myself to shave. But the preparation was weak and insufficient.

So I determined to keep the beard.

Now, I had played Santa Claus at enough company parties, church functions, and family get-togethers over the years that I knew I would always be Santa at least once or twice annually. I had carefully cultivated a Santa round little belly, and a jovial chuckle that as I grew older sounded more and more like “Ho, Ho, Ho!” I had purchased my very own high-quality Santa suit, complete with fake beard and hair. I had learned the lyrics to all the Christmas Carols over the years. And I had fallen in love with kids, beginning with my own, of course, and then with childhood in general–the innocence, the energy, the extreme candor…

And so, having been failed by my wife, I was saved by the children.

Being Santa was my new reason. And it all made sense. I NEEDED the beard. And I NEEDED to be Santa. Not only was it part of who I had become over the years, it also made for a nice little retirement plan.

And I got to keep the beard…

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