Men And Their Beards

I see my dad twice a year. The last time I saw him feels like the kind of memory one associates with a photo—stagnant, an anecdote. We sat in a coffee shop in Boston at a small round table for an hour, sipping on coffee. It was brief. This time, jumping out of his car, he greeted me with a tight, bony hug at the North Carolina airport. It felt nice to see him, I softened as he held me. When we got back in the car, he offered me corn nuts cupped in his hand, then we drove south to MerleFest.

As we stopped to charge his car, it began to downpour. Dad jammed the charger into his car repeatedly, like a child shoving a round block into a square hole. The rain coated him completely and I chuckled.

At Zaxby’s, a diner with checkerboard walls, harsh lighting, and cute waitresses, my dad advised me not to shape myself around others. “People love talking about themselves,” he urged, picking at the complimentary peanuts. “So, all my life, I’ve asked other people questions. It’s just easier.” He discarded the shells in a napkin. He’s a messy eater. Muffins fear him.

Dad left a meager tip and we drove to Wilkesboro. Slipping into rain jackets, we moseyed over to the stages where MerleFest rumbled with fiddles and fried fish. The rain blurred the evening into a green hue, a tsunami of pine trees towering over the outdoor stage.

Venturing to the food tent, a man walked by and tipped his cowboy hat at me. He was manly in a way men are told to be. His beard was clean and his skin was tan from the Carolina sun. He smiled with his tongue pressed to cheek. My eyes drifted over his face and across his back as he walked away. I objectified him in a way that felt intrinsic. Suddenly, I wanted to reproduce again.

Scanning the crowd I could’ve snagged dozens like him. Wilkesboro consisted of white people and lawn chairs. There must have been a buy-one, get-one-free sale for beards; everywhere I looked I saw mustaches and chin straps. Dad’s never grown a beard. One time he tried, the hairs growing in patchy, speckled gray and white. I wanted to smudge it off with my thumb.

Cowboy Man’s boots sunk into the mud, smearing the grass into the earth. It must take months to grow back only for him to return to MerleFest the next year to destroy it again. Dad stepped up on the path. We both wove through the wet mud spots, respectfully. The clay dried to my overalls and left them smelling of mold.

As the music ended that night, with a nod, we agreed it was time to go so we let ourselves be carried back by the crowd, like rocks in a riverbed.

…

Next day, I woke and texted the girl I was talking to at the time, “I can hear the festival already, I was awoken by some sort of strumming.” She responded saying, “that’s fucking beautiful.” I squealed at the thought of her saying that next to me in bed, her fingers playing with my hair. A man had never made me feel this way.

Rolling out of bed, I pulled on the same muddy overalls and descended downstairs. The day was overcast and sticky. A sunburn lined my ears and nose, pink. With the festival finishing at midnight, I looked up the Airbnb directions as we sat charging Dad's car in the dark at an empty Ford dealership. I looked out on the drizzly night, the rain breaking the humidity. I kept retaking a selfie to send to the girl. She texted me, asking how everything was, and I responded saying, “my dad’s starting to bother me.”

Once charged, we wove through the Blue Ridge Mountains to where we were staying: a one-bedroom situation above a garage at the base of the mountains. The drive was steep and winding and my ears popped. It was late by this time, maybe 2:00 a.m. All was quiet except for Dad slamming open the windows to let some air into the loft. Dad gets hot when he sleeps. He folds into the fetal position and sleeps restlessly. I get hot when I sleep too.

Laying my jacket to dry on the ground, I saw my father hunched in the corner, legs crossed, scrolling through his Facebook page. I observed him and felt this urge to tell him to sit up. I wanted to place a cowboy hat on his head, shepherd him out into the mountains and hike for hours, through sweat, calf cramps, and exhaustion. I wanted to scream at him to “man up.” Instead, I kissed him on the forehead. “Aw, thanks Keeks,” he said, closing his eyes.

Later, as I washed off the day of banjo and sweat, I heard a voice from outside the bathroom. “Hey, I have a joint.” We slid the glass door shut, the mist falling onto my face and dotting Dad’s hair white, aging him. The fog crept along the horizon, visible from the deck. Dark green silhouettes of mountains were soft and quiet like sleeping dogs. The rivers rushing below mimicked deep breaths. I inhaled the stale smoke, passing the joint to Dad who inhaled and puffed out into the night. He was calm for the first time all day. He didn't fidget or shake his leg but instead leaned against the railing, closing his eyes. He laughed, though neither of us had said anything. I forgot about his stupid electric car and how wet my socks were.

Glancing at my dad, he looked older than he did six months ago. He was happy, distracted. His chest rose slowly with each deep breath and his eyes closed briefly, which must’ve felt like a full night’s rest since he smiled softly to himself, his lungs keeping him afloat. To breathe is to let pass, to forgive. I’d never seen him so at peace. He wasn’t a father at that moment, but a friend. He offered me another hit, no more than the butt left, balanced between his thumb and index finger. “No, no,” I said, waving him off. “You go ahead and finish it.”

Kira Salter-GurauMarch 8, 2024