What does your beard say about you?

The Earth didn’t exactly shake when the New York Yankees announced that they would allow their players to wear beards. However, the change in the half-century-old policy could stand as a symbol of our cultural epoch. That’s because, for the first time in over a century, beards are coming to be seen as markers of the ruling class. No, seriously. And not just because when JD Vance took the oath, he became the first bearded vice president since 1909. The beard, which in my lifetime has been treated as synonymous with oddball, has become a thing again. Even Prince William has joined the bewhiskered. Some fear that the revival represents nostalgia for a lost masculine ideal, or maybe, as Yankees managing general partner Hal Steinbrenner said, it’s just that the current generation believes their facial hair is part of their individuality.

Either way, if one walks, say, the streets of Midtown Manhattan, one spies the clan of the bearded streaming in and out of the office towers — a sight that, just a generation ago, would have been unthinkable. Indeed, for much of late modern history, the barbigerous were regarded with skepticism. During the 19th century, the European monarchies associated beards with dangerous radicals. So did the dangerous radicals. Historians tell us that Marx and Engels grew their famously fulsome facial hair, at least in part to symbolize their rejection of middle-class morality.

In the US, a beard was often seen as a symbol of the Abolitionist movement. John Brown sported one. So did John C. Frémont, the anti-slavery Republican who lost the 1856 presidential election. Abraham Lincoln did not grow his beard until after he was elected in 1860, but it was in full bloom by the time he took the oath of office — more evidence, for Southerners, of the threat he posed to their way of life. But once the 16th president took the oath, the fashion gathered steam among the nation’s leaders until, in Gore Vidal’s words, “all sorts of odd excrescences had begun to blossom on political faces.” Republican newspapers ran advertisements for potions that would help ambitious males cover those bare chins. Even editorial writers got into the act, praising the “magical influences” of those who wanted “beards or whiskers.” Soon, the Victorians made beards safe to wear, even for the elites. Doctors wrote learned essays insisting that beards were good for male health.

In the early 20th century, the culture moved the other way. Suddenly, beards were bad again. Many writers attribute the shift to the rise of the safety razor, which was patented in 1904. But the historian Christopher Oldstone-Moore, in his 2017 volume Of Beards and Men: The Revealing History of Facial Hair, argues that the commonly told story confuses cause and effect: The new invention caught on because the popularity of whiskers was already fading. Oldstone-Moore links the decline of the beard to the rise of urbanism and corporatism. The cleanly shaved face became a device through which men could “display the virtues of a new century: youthfulness, energy, cleanliness, and reliability.” By 1976, when owner George Steinbrenner commanded that Yankee players henceforth be clean-shaven, the nation’s aversion to beards was complete. Once again, the bristly chin had come to symbolise radicalism, even membership in the fabled counterculture. Fidel Castro had a beard. Che Guevara had a beard. A syndicated columnist who visited the East Village in lower Manhattan described it as a hang-out for “misfit artists” and “bearded Negroes.”

When Jerry Rubin wrote that Karl Marx was “history’s most infamous, bearded, longhaired, hippie commie freek (sic) agitator,” the Yippie founder meant every word as complimentary. The historian Anthony Esler entitled his 1971 monograph on rebellious young people Bombs, Beards, and Barricades. The few sports figures who sported beards — Reggie Jackson to the fore — were seen as politically defiant and, therefore, problematic. Worried employers adopted rules limiting male facial hair, and, back then, the courts largely acquiesced. The inability of the bearded to get jobs was mocked in popular music. Experts advised men in the job market to shave their faces. In January 1985, with President Ronald Reagan poised to begin his second term, the inaugural committee created a kerfuffle by advertising for “attractive, clean-cut, all-American types” to perform at the celebration. Critics insisted that the description was code for “White.”

After Diana Ross canceled her scheduled performance, the committee backed down, explaining, in classic Washington-speak, that the ad had been placed without being checked by higher-ups, that there could not have been any discriminatory intention because lots of minority performers had been hired, and that the phrase in question actually meant “pleasant” and “outgoing.”