Overcoming The Dark Scourge Of Beardophobia
Despite the cultural importance of the man mane to the Appalachian people, I am sad to report that beardophobia is alive and well in northeast Tennessee. I can’t say that it’s endemic, as I routinely encounter fellow members of the Fellowship of the Fur while out and about, but unfortunately the threat is very real and the fate of the fabulous farmers of facial foliage hangs in the balances. If action isn’t taken soon, other chia chinned comrades might find themselves in exile like the misunderstood Sasquatch, the maligned Yeti, and yours truly.
Being discriminated against is difficult to talk about, particularly when you’re in the minority and feel that you have no influence or power to change the situation or events that you are experiencing. You may have feelings of helplessness, hopelessness, or futility. When you think about it, you can rationalize a solid case for both staying silent and for speaking up, but often people chose to remain silent. Silence is the path of least resistance. Is it worth the time and trouble? Will there be retaliation or retribution of some kind? What will other people think?
Personally, I tend to try not to get too bent out of shape about things. I don’t want to be perceived as a complainer or a whiner. I prefer to do my thing to the best of my ability where I am. If I feel like a door is closing or if I begin to lose my internal peace about a situation, I look for another opportunity. Road blocks and closed doors are sometimes there to reroute us to the beginning of our next adventure.
I am sad to report that I am not immune to the darkness that is beardophobia. I have been the recipient of beardophobic discrimination at the hand of a former employer. The possibility remains that the beardophobia is targeted rather than systemic, but as the old sayings go, “Beardophobia is beardophobia” and “Where the dark specter of beardophobia looms, injustice is deeply entrenched”, right?
I used to work at a level 1 trauma center in northeast Tennessee. In a nearby town, there was another level 1 trauma center. Each of the trauma centers was part of a different healthcare system. When a shiny new hospital system was formed out of the merger of the two formerly competing health care systems in our region, the decision was made to keep the level 1 trauma center in the other hospital and to “downgrade” the our trauma center to a level 3 trauma center.
I was marginalized and ostracized. Communication was non existent. Either no one could or no one would give me a plan about what my role in the new system was going to be or if I had one at all. Eventually, I resigned my position, but agreed to keep privileges and a part time / as needed position with less pay and less help. I was skeptical about the new system for many reasons including the way that things went down, but I wanted to keep an open mind and not burn a bridge. My hope was to keep a big toe in the door, just in case I was wrong about the impact of the changes on the community. We had no intention of moving, so maybe I could ride things out until there was a changing of the guard and things settled down.
Very soon after this, COVID hit and everyone lost their minds. I had signed up for a series of shifts. Midway through the stretch, I was notified by the executives that there was a new policy and that if I did not shave, I could no longer work there. I asked them to explain it. Like everything at the time, the answer was “because of COVID”. I told them that I felt that their policy was reactionary rather than evidence-based, but that I would consider shaving if they could provide evidence as to how shaving my beard off would improve my health and safety and / or that of my patients. They had none because there was none. I offered to wear any PPE that they requested, and even offered to purchase and wear a Power Air-Purifying Respirator (PAPR) or some similar equivalent while engaged in patient care activities. They said no. After all, policy is policy.
As a surgeon, cleanliness and infection control measures have always been of the greatest importance. I mean, I even do a surgical scrub before draining butt pus. Is there anything filthier than an infected anus? In surgery, I have long worn a neck sleeve to tuck away my luscious locks. It makes me look somewhat like a penis with two sparkling blue urethral openings, but if that’s the price that I have to pay to protect my patients and preserve my mug rug, then so be it. In no way does having a beard put me or my patients at risk.
Many people have no idea that my buccal bush is actually the abode of just over ten million microscopic ninja warriors that constantly protect me from evil and wickedness of all sorts. Not surprisingly, the ninja warriors, male and female alike, also have their own hanging habitats which serve as colonies to countless additional brushy brethren. Obviously, this process repeats infinitely. Shaving would be a travesty, as it would equate to a genocidal deforestation of epic proportions. Who could commit such atrocities with a clear conscience?
Needless to say, I declined the gracious offer to be relieved of my Admiral’s pennant. It was interesting to me that as I was working out my last few days, I would walk around the hospital and observe employees with beards protruding from behind their obligatory masks. It really didn’t bother me and served as affirmation that I wasn’t welcome and had done the right thing by resigning. I moved on to other things, but kept privileges in the event that everything were to blow over and get back to normal some day.
Every once in a while I would reach out and touch base with the executives to see how they were doing and if anything changed. They would say that everything was great and that the policy was still in effect and being enforced. While they may have been telling the truth about the policy being in effect, I knew that it wasn’t being enforced, at least not uniformly. I started seeing billboards pop up around town featuring smiling bearded surgeons in staged operating room photoshoots. Multiple surgeons. Multiple employees. Granted, some of the ziffs were relatively feminine wannabe chin pelts, but the intent was certainly there. We all have to start somewhere, right? I recall sitting in a parking lot one time looking at one of the billboards while my family went into McAlister’s to order and texting the executives to ask if the beard policy had changed. They informed me that it hadn’t. I just laughed.
Eventually, I got tired of waiting and pulled my big toe out of that door. I wasn’t hanging on because I was pining about the glory days of our program, even though it really was very special in its heyday. I love the people. The people that I worked with. The people that we cared for. It was out of legitimate love and concern for my community. That part hasn’t changed and never will.
Has beardophobia ruined my life? As I sit here with my feet up on my desk typing, occasionally stroking my homegrown wookie bib contentedly, I can say with certainty that it has not at all. Quite the contrary. I am doing exceedingly well. I am thriving. While it would be great if I could live and work in the same community again someday, I love my wacky hippy homesteading gypsy surgeon life. Sometimes, things don’t happen the way that we want them to. I believe it was Confucius that once said, “Shit happens”. 🤥 We can’t always control our circumstances but what we can control is our reaction. When one chapter ends, it’s an opportunity for another to begin if we are receptive. It is good to be reflective, but dwelling on the things that we can’t change to the point that they steal our peace and joy gives victory to our circumstances.
Have you or anyone that you know ever been subjected to the cruel practice of beardophobia?
What would you have done if you were in my shoes?
