The loving care that my Pakistani friend takes with the ministration of his beard inspired me to write a poem about it. I couldn't resist.

THE NOBLE BEARD

by John Herlihy

When my friend wakes up in the morning,
His noble beard wakes up with him.
The beard doesn’t wish to appear fawning,
As it patiently awaits its well-deserved wash and trim.
Wishing to attend to his business looking fit and slim.

My friend loves his beard there is no doubting;
He inspects, cuts, and trims individual hairs all the while pouting,
Alone with himself, he can concentrate without shouting.
With his trusty comb, he shapes the unruly hairs into a fluffy look
As if he has stolen trendy insights from a barber’s training book.

The sheikhs and emirs mock time by looking half their age,
Thanks to the ministrations of an accommodating court page.
Who pampers and pets the beards with devotion, thinking of his wage,
As though he were playing a major role on the London stage.
Once done, the royals finally depart as though freed from a cage
Feeling younger by half with no need at the barber to rage.

Not so my Pathan friend Fahed who has no such flair.
Once a week, the fledgling beard needs special attention and care.
Even if it cost an exaggerated price the poor man thinks unfair.
Something has to be done about this graying facial hair;
He does not want his appearance to be the cause of regret.
On the contrary, a well-kept beard inspires a form of respect.

Visiting the barbershop in these places is truly a social affair,
With people hugging and hitting each other like rough bears.
The customers settle in for the traditional service of tea and dates;
There are endless stories to tell about their unhappy fates;
They are resigned to a more favorable destiny of he who waits.

The barbers seem all too willing to cut and lay waste;
They generously smear my exposed facial skin with a cleansing paste.
The barber goes so far as to trim my eyebrows, ears, and nose
While I wince in discomfort instead of slipping into a dose,
Thinking all the while those sharp scissors a wound will impose.

Meanwhile my friend’s barber tucks his way into the duty at hand;
Washing, combing and coloring his beard down to every last strand;
Making sure he does a good job and work according to plan.
Customers’ children march to and fro like a marching band,
As though they needed to get the lay of the land.
Wondering what all the fuss is about on those faces so grand.

Meanwhile, overhead fans refreshed the customer’s beards,
As they sat contentedly in the barber chair looking weird,
With their beards reaching forward in expectation of being sheared.
One beard seemed arranged with skill like a basket of flowers,
Hand-picked and lovingly arranged from nearby garden bowers.

One busy crop of bush pointed every which way,
The beard giving the customer a bedazzled look one could say.
The barber trimmed and fussed over this beard with special needs
Giving the customer a hare-brained air, like a string of broken beads.

One beard sat on a customer’s face with a life of its own
Giving every appearance of being home grown
Who would believe the meticulous care that seemed to be shown.
The beard actually had an air of fare thee well
With power enough to induce the onlooker into a magic spell.

Finally, one aging customer sported a beard with a sculptured air,
Looking every bit a classic contrivance on display at a fair.
It gave the appearance of being a trimmed bush in a manicured lawn,
Moving at its own measured pace like a slow-gliding swan.
Upon closer inspection, it seem to be a veritable work of art.
In truth, the beard wore the man rather than the man taking his part.

I once visited a dead friend to offer condolences to his wife,
Who no doubt was feeling sad from this unexpected strife.
He was laid out in the parlor looking like a naughty knave,
For all intents and purposes, he could be asleep in a cave,
All thoughts of life and love now lifeless and scattered,
The body no longer in a position to be flattered,
Still, as we gazed upon the lifeless corpse, the beard still mattered.

The death mask serene in repose; the body still looking stout;
There was one final thing about which there was no doubt.
The dead body was about to be wrapped permanently in a shroud;
But the beard, my God, still gave the appearance of being proud.
He was a good man, friends murmured, with no special significance;
But the beard, my God, was an example of true magnificence.