Scraggly Old Men Cope with Facial Hair Angst

Waitress in Jersey Diner Agrees to Odd Stroking Request

Seeing him in his full grey, hirsute splendor, a chorus of exclamations rose from the other three society members as he took a seat at the table.

Holiday joviality aside, it quickly became clear that Eldon, Zeffir and Augie felt... well, betrayed by the beard. Their bond, the very thing that led to the society's creation six years earlier when they were in their late fifties, was clean shaven faces -- and their craggy good looks accentuated by angular jaws and bushy eyebrows. Each could have been a model in a clothing catalog for the older man, say the Land's End or Orvis Extra Mature Collection.

"Gone over to the dark side, have we?" growled Zeffir, always first with an opinion.

"I just couldn't take it any more," Dimitri said, looking sheepish. Or at least as sheepish as is possible from behind a thick bush of wire-hard facial hair. "Day after day after day... It wears you out." His brown eyes sought forgiveness.

Silence feel over the table as the others contemplated their own struggles. While each understood the daily torture Dimitri sought to escape, no one expected him, seen as the strongest, to give in.

But here he was, bearded. If the four men could have been truly honest with each other -- which they couldn't be, of course, since they weren't women -- they would have admitted that perhaps, just maybe, he was even more handsome bearded than clean shaven, that is, as clean shaven as any of them could ever be.

If Dimitri was more handsome with a beard, how long could the others hold out? It's one thing to grow older. Something else to admit to growing older.

The Society of Scraggly Old Men was an accidental creature, spawned by a twenty-something advertising whiz kid looking for a "New Idea" to pitch to Gillette, the razor manufacturer.

Whiz, as the four came to call him, had a grandfather who complained about the difficulty getting a clean shave because his stubble had toughened with age. No longer could he shave by pulling the razor down on his face, shaving with the grain of the hair. Age dictated he pull the razor up, against the grain, forcing him into all manner of contortions. Particularly troubling was shaving the upper lip. The nose was constantly in the way.

Whiz' grandmother complained that five minutes after her husband shaved, she was still married to a "scraggly old man."

So Whiz came up with an elaborate idea for a new razor and ancillary products aimed at the "mature" shaving market. Each evening he prowled the queues of commuters at New York's Port Authority bus terminal searching for older men who probably had left home that morning clean shaven and were returning as scraggly old men.

Dimitri, Eldon, Zeffir and Augie were selected. They spent nights and weekends for the next year participating in all manner of dog and pony shows for advertising gurus, razor engineers, focus groups and corporate executives. The oddest moment came when they shaved in front of a focus group comprised of fashion models, who then fondled their faces and rated their shaves.

The effort came to naught. Gillette said it would continue focusing on the 18 to 34 year-old demographic, leaving scraggly old men to fend for themselves. Whiz got the heave-ho at the agency.

But the four men bonded and the Society of Scraggly Old Men was formed.

"What does Elena think?" Augie asked.

"Took her 13 days to notice," Dimitri answered.

Quizzical bushy eyebrows arched around the table.

"Two weeks?" Eldon said.

"Maybe she noticed sooner, but it was 13 days to mention it. She's really busy, grandkids and the homeless shelter”.

"Actually, I've thought of having my head shaved," said Zeffir.

"Scraggly old man on steroids," Eldon chuckled.

"What about a beard at work," Augie asked.

"It's like that Viagra ad on television," Dimitri said. "Everyone starts noticing you. There was even a woman, a young woman, who asked if she could feel my beard."

Silence as they considered this news.

"We should all grow a beard and see how long it takes the wife to notice," Eldon said.

"Sign me up. I'd win that one," said Augie. "I'd beat two weeks easy."

"How do you feel... you know... inside," Zeffir asked. As part of Whiz' project, each of them had met separately twice weekly for four months with a psychoanalyst to talk about facial hair. The shrink wrote a report for the agency.

Dimitri imitated a thick German accent. "How is my shaving angst, ya?" Dr. Rubenstein stories were always good for a laugh.

"I'm fine with it." He stared into his coffee cup. “I think I'm going to keep it."

More silence. Each concentrated on eating while measuring Dimitri's facial hair calculus against his own. Soon, talk turned to family, work, politics and Zeffir's passion for his picture postcard collection.

When the waitress, a wiry woman in her fifties, laid the check on the table, Augie looked up and said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, Hon," she said.

"I don't want to scare you or anything... this may sound crazy... but would you feel each of our faces and decide which face feels the best?"

"Whoa there!" She backed away and studied them. "I've been doing this 33 years next month. That's strange. Feel your faces?"

"Just run your hand over each face and tell us who feels best." Augie stroked his cheek to demonstrate.

She glanced at the manager behind the cash register. "I could get fired."

"Nah, we won't let him. Just feel our faces and tell us who feels best."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"In what order," she asked.

"Any order you want," Augie said. He smiled reassuringly.

She studied them a second and then quickly moved to Augie and rubbed his left cheek. He stiffened at the touch. Then Eldon, who leaned into her hand. As she rubbed Zeffir's cheek, he placed his hand over hers.

"Last but not least," said Dimitri as she ran her hand through his beard.

She stepped back and studied them one by one. Then she returned to Dimitri and stroked his beard again. "This one." She placed a hand on Dimitri's shoulder.

"I knew it," said Eldon. All three looked glum. Asking the waitress to feel their faces at first might have seemed a joke, but no longer.

As they divided up the check, Augie insisted they each leave a $5 tip. "She's a real sport," he said.

In the parking lot, they shook hands and embraced. Then, instead of getting into their cars, they stood awkwardly looking at each other. Finally, as if compelled by some force, each ran a hand through Dimitri's beard. They drove away without another word.

Driving West on Route 3 toward Verona and his family's Thanksgiving dinner, Dimitri caught himself unconsciously stroking his beard. He reached up and angled the rearview mirror to see his face.

"You know what?" he said to his reflection. "I think I just attended the last meeting of the Society of Scraggly Old Men."

Copyright William Stockton & Smithtown Creek Productions
All Rights Reserved