He was wearing a white raincoat and smelled strongly of Old Holborn. Sitting on a seat beside me, he offered legal advice on a pro bono basis. Our masters in Parliament were about to ban all beards. This was the Beard Law.
Any time soon, after the third reading in the House of Lords, the bill was to receive royal assent. Beards would disappear from Britain. Sales of razors would boom. The bottom would fall out of the moustache wax market.
I asked my companion what he would do. His eyes filled with tears as his facial hair tickled the brim of his pint glass.
Something had to be done. My mind raced through the obvious options: write to my MP or march through Westminster. At the very least, I could buy shares in shaving foam.
I decided to go to the university library to research the subject. Beards had been in and out of favour since ancient times being alternately seen as evidence of heroism or uncouthness. In 1698, Peter the Great of Russia had passed a law banning beards from his subjects. The Beard Law had a precedent. I had something to tell the Beard Law man.
I next saw him in the street near where he lived. It was spring now and he still wore his white macintosh and hat. He updated me on the Beard Law's passage through the committee stage and the threat to our liberties. He was not surprised that the Russians had banned beards.
I decided to move to London and grow a beard. No young men had beards then, except for some religious folk.
The most asked question to a beard wearer is how did they grow it. To which the answer is, it just grew out of their face.
After some time, the beard had to go. It was not I had made a decision as to its nobility or churlishness. It was simply that the beard was ginger.
Over the years, things went quiet. I was not in touch with the Fenland beard man and I noticed a distinct absence of news reports about the law's enactment. Then a strange thing happened. Everyone began to grow a beard and beards were everywhere. From Hoxton to Highgate and down to Ladbroke Grove, men sprouted as many bristly hairs as befitted their noble or barbarian blood. A man rode past me on a bicycle looking like Edward Lear. You could be served in a pub by Ernest Hemmingway or Santa Claus.
I met my friend for lunch at the House of Commons where she worked. A familiar figure caught my eye in the lobby. At first I was unable to place him. It was Mr. Beard Law in his old cream coloured coat, but he was completely clean shaven. Noticing my surprise, he told me that he had switched sides and decided to campaign for the Beard Law. He told me he had received some funding from a well-known maker of disposable razors to pay for his travel to London.
In this time of mustachios and beard stroking, now, more than ever, we really need the Beard Law.
