Hirsute

Shaven Apostle

The rest of the apostles were hirsute, proud of their flowing manes and the long, gnarled beards. The shaven one mostly kept out of sight when going to Jerusalem.

In grad school I had a proud, messed-up Amish beard. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t cut it, but I couldn’t. It was like Samson’s hair, a cure for my worry.

I wonder what people really thought of my beard. Did they all call me an escaped mental health patient? Or did they just have pity on me who was addicted to hair?

The shaven apostle couldn’t allow himself to eat the Host at the Last Supper. Jesus was just right there, and the rest of the apostles were chewing his flesh, bones.

He was never a martyr, the shaven apostle. Authorities couldn’t find him because he was so clean-cut. He would’ve begged for a Christian death, but he was afraid, too.

When I finally shaved, I felt like crying. A part of me that had been there for so long, a friendly parasite, was snipped off. I wanted to gather the locks, glue them back on.

But here I am, beard forever gone among the choices. Sometimes I get scruffy for a few days, but my wife says “no.” She needs smooth skin to kiss during the day, at night.