Two Sounds

It finally happened. In the legendary El Fishawy coffee house— a Cairo institution for 242 years, a framed mirror of the same age, pocked and rippled, reflecting the numberless faces of Egyptian society, cigarette and flavored shisha smoke hanging in the air like velvet drapes, a prize winning cockroach, well fed and confident, scuttling unfazed along the frame of the doorway, camel leather bean bag cushions threaded with opulent beads, a turnstile of toothless hagglers and touts slanging swords, snake skin wallets, King Tut masks, braided anklets, golden Aladdin lamps, lotus extract perfumes, henna tattoos, and the most destitute, Kleenex, a team of demonstrative servers barking at the constant rotation of sludge-sipping locals and starry-eyed visitors, trying to keep their wits in a place that effortlessly strips them away—an Arabic speaking woman looked me over then spoke to the man beside her, who after releasing a hearty laugh, smacked me on the knee and shouted through a smile, “She said you look like Jesus!”

The woman turned out to be the only Christian we met in eight days, so I assume she would know.

I will be the very first to admit the beard is not handsome. It is unkempt and unbecoming. Aside from my moustache, which insists weekly on falling over my upper lip, I have only trimmed my facial hair once in nearly four months (sixty days ago in an Indian barbershop called Habib’s). It protrudes from my cheeks in puffy tufts. When I swim it holds water for almost half an hour. When I wake up in the morning it is matted and flat, but by the time I sit down to breakfast it has already spread its wings. Sometimes it itches and chafes. It requires a vigorous shampooing at least biweekly. I am not proud of it. To be honest, there are times when I am mildly ashamed. Between my recycled clothes and the beard, most people I meet probably think I am on some type of spiritual pilgrimage, wandering the Earth, exploring the world and my place within it…wait a minute.

I suppose, more than anything, the beard has become a symbol. It is a barometer. It tells the story of how far we’ve come. It reminds me of the freedom, so sweet and special, that has filled our hearts. It is the physical realization of the absence of rules. It is a silent protest to the regulations that govern our normal lives. It stands for the temporary casting away of responsibility. It embodies the spirit of the vagabond that has taken hold of us and transported us to places we never imagined we would see. It is the symbol of happiness and discovery and wanderlust. It reminds me of the beginning of my marriage and the living out of a dream.

There will be two sounds the moment it comes off: my tears landing in the bathroom sink, and Jeannie’s lips hitting the cheek she hasn’t kissed in two months.