I Capture the Castle

by Dodie Smith

Just then he opened his eyes and said: “You don’t like it, do you?” I felt myself blushing. “Like what?” I said. “My beard,” said Simon. “You were wondering how any man could wear one — unless, of course, it has acquired a fascination of horror for you. Which is it?” “As a matter of fact, I’m getting used to it.” He laughed and said that was the ultimate humiliation — everyone did. “Everyone except me,” he added. “I never see myself in a glass without feeling astonished.” “Would it be rude to ask just why you do wear it?” “It would be natural, anyway. I grew it when I was twenty-two, for a bet, and then kept it out of sheer pig-headedness — it looked so wonderfully unsuitable for a Wall Street office; I was with a cousin of my mother’s there and our dislike was mutual. And I think I felt a beard kept me in touch with literature. But it probably has some deep psychological significance — I expect I’m trying to hide an infamous nature from the world.” “Well, it’s quite the nicest beard I ever saw,” I said. “Do you think you’ll ever get rid of it?” For some reason, that made him laugh. Then he said: “Oh, in ten or twelve years, perhaps — say when I’m forty. It’ll be so useful to come down without it one morning, looking twenty years younger.

How odd that beards were so uncommon then.