For the past thirty years, I’ve had a beard of varying lengths. At some point six years ago, I let it grow quite long while larping (in my head) about being an ancestor of Norse explorers. That beard saved many a shirt from the ravages of food stains. It was my friend. A handful of people made it clear to me that no company could make them shave their precious beards. Funny thing is, these are the same people who chant that a company has the right to refuse any customer request—because it’s their company.
Last week I realized I needed a job, and no, I couldn’t wait months for some corporate Rube Goldberg machine to start a weeks long review process that would likely end in me being ghosted. I didn’t need a lot of money, just enough to keep my dad in his home and pay down some debt I accrued over the years.
Enter the familiar world of fast food
It was remarkably easy to get a minimum wage job, even at my old age, and minimum wage isn’t what it used to be. The manager of that restaurant donned an apologetic expression as she told me the best they could offer. Uh, that was way more than I imagined, so…we’re cool. There was a catch, the beard had to go completely, not even a stylish scruff would be tolerated. I haven’t been clean-shaven at all in the 21st century. My first internal reaction was to wave goodbye, but I’m smarter than that.
Their company, their rules. I wasn’t a high-end software developer, or database guru who held some clout in a desperate organization. I’m an easily replaceable cog trying to squeeze money from one the most efficient corporations this Earth has ever seen. If I couldn’t part ways with my facial hair, then I deserved to fail. I will not fail.