kien beard stories

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10.1177/1077800404269427QUALITATIVEINQUIRY/Month2004Kien/BEARDSTORIES

Beard Stories:Signification of Facial HairIn and Out of South Korea

Grant KienUniversity of Illinois at UrbanaChampaign

To sporta beard signifies something. Stories are not generallywritten aboutbeing cleanshaven. Although perfectly natural, a beard is an add on, like an extra appendage. Abeard is a style choice. This seriesof autoethnographic vignettesshowssome of theadded

effects of a beard felt by a body aestheticthatalreadysignifies foreigner in thenationalimaginaryof South Korea.What beginswitha simpleassumption about a markerof for-eignnessand difference laterservesas a signifierof normativetropes,an ethnic identifier,as a sexualand politicalmarker, andeventually comes to unveila deepercultural dimen-sion withinthe context of itsinterpretation. Finally,throughthe process of reflecting onits erasure, the depth of personal significance of the beard in question is revealed.

Keywords: Western culture; autoethnography; South Korea; Seoul; performance

1. THE ENVIOUS SHOESHINE

Its morning, about 8:30 a.m. Imwalking from my apartment by Yeoksam

Station to theschool whereI work, a coupleof blocksfrom Gangnam Station.Imthinking about where to cross the busy, traffic-jammedSeochoro Street soI can get a coffee and bagel at the Starbucks along the way . . . maybe at thecrosswalk right after this shoeshine booth? As I pass the new office towerunder construction besidetheStar Tower, I hear a mans voice shout HEY!!I stop and look into the shoeshine booth beside the busy street. I see one mandiligently working on a shoeandanother more disheveled-looking manstar-ing fiercely at me with a big smile on his face. He embarks on some kind ofinvective in Korean that I cant understand a word of, gesticulating whileslowly advancing toward me.Hangul anio, (NoKorean) I reply sleepily inmy butchered approximation of his native language. He points to his chin,indicating what I now understand to be a reference to my short, box-cut

beard.Its rareto see anyonewith facial hair in Seoul,except for the odd rebel-lious college student or musician. He puts up a hand and says what I take to

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Qualitative Inquiry, Volume XX Number X, 2004 1-8

DOI: 10.1177/1077800404269427 2004 Sage Publications


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anyEnglish atall. I tell them I hope herprojectis successful andthat Ill checkthepictureonline soon. They thank me,bow slightly, andreturn to their table

behindours.Ourfood arrivesshortlyafter, and NaJungand I pickup ourcon-versation where we had left off. Later when I check the Web site, I find nopictures of beards whatsoever.

3. THE TAXI RIDE IN MOKDONG

MokDongYok juseyo, (to MokDong station please) I say to the taxidriver. Im rushing from my American friend Seans apartment to catch thesubway back to my neighborhood, Yeoksamgu, before it quits running at 11p.m.MokDongYok?the driver verifies.Ye, MokDongYok juseyo,I reiter-ate. He tries a couple of phrases with me and quickly realizes I have no con-versational knowledge of Korean.We proceed,listening to the barely audibleradio, until he suddenly begins an interrogation. Out of his numerous sen-tences, I understand him to ask Hindu saram imnikka? (Youre Indian?),

but still I dont totally understand at first. Hindu . . . Hindu . . . , he says,pointing at me questioningly in the rearview mirror. I smile, amused. Can-adasaram imnida,I say. Canada, I repeat.Hmmm . . . ,he replies,contin-uing to look at me in the mirror and nowanimatedly but unconsciously rub-

bing his clean-shaven chin as if he is rubbing a beard. Suddenly he pulls thecar over to the curb. MokDongYok . . . , he tells me, pointing to the subwayentrance. I payhimandthankinghim,rushoutof thetaxi tocatch mytrain.

4. BACKWARD-STARING GIRLS IN BUSAN

Seanand I are ona weekend tripto Busan.It is Sunday. We are onthe east-ernmost tipof theKorean peninsula, having just visited the eastern beach onthe shore of Taejongdae. As we begin to descend along the road toward thepark exit, we approacha group of about five young womenwalkingup in theoppositedirection. As we get nearer, their conversationdrops in volume, andI feel their eyes on my face. I smile and say, Anyong haseyo (Hello). Theycollectively giggle, andwe continue past each other. I look over at Sean who,head turnedback over hisshoulder, exclaims,Shiiiiit . . . damn . . . howcomeno girls ever look at ME that way?!! I follow his gaze back to the group ofwomen and see they are all still staring at me, necks craning backward likeours as they proceed uptheincline. Their conversation hasresumedits previ-ous pitch, and a couple smile, giggle, and avert their eyes when they noticeIm looking back at them. Its the beard, I reply in a serious, quiet voice to

Sean, you gotta grow a beard if you want that kind of attention in this coun-try. Shit! I cant grow a beard like yours! he exclaims. Mine is always too

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thin and patchy. . . . We continue down the mountainside, discussing facialhair and beard types.

5. THE CRAZY BUSAN TAXI DRIVER

Were late. Seans watch stopped at 12:20 p.m. during our exploration ofTaejongdae. Weveascertained thatits now3:15, andwe realize we might notmake it tothe bus station intimeto catchour 4:30 ride backtoSeoul. We franti-cally search for a taxi and finally flag one just outside the park entrance. Weslide intothe backseat, and Seanexplains asbesthe can thatwe need toget tothe closest subway station on the mainland as quickly as possible. The car

begins forward, and a couple of minutes into the ride, I notice the driver care-fully studying my face in his rearview mirror. Saddam Hussein! he sud-denly exclaims, demonstrating a mustache by animated wiping of his upperlip with his finger. What?? Sean and I look at each other questioningly.SaddamHussein! he vigorously repeats. I pause. Saddamanio, (Saddamno) I reply. Canada saram imnida, (Im Canadian) I emphasize. Ha ha . . .Saddam Hussein Number 1! the driver exclaims. George Bush Number10!hecontinues. Anuneasy amusementgrips me,and I lookatSean forsup-port again. He has a funny grin on his face. I can see hes rather enjoying thedirection of this conversation.GeorgeBush Number 10!. . . SaddamHusseinNumber 1!the driverrepeats foreffect. Saddam anio, Bush anio . . . Canadasaram imnida, (Saddam no, Bush no, Im Canadian) I try to explain. Its nouse . . . he repeats his mantratwo orthree moretimes, chuckling all the while.Finally, in a diversionarytactic, I point to the Buddhistprayer beads danglingfrom a knob on his dashboard. Buddha? I cryptically inquire. He takes the

beads in his hand and begins chanting, demonstrating the proper use of thebeads for us. Ye? Ye? he asks to see if we understand. Om . . . saganawawadoo, sagana punektu . . . , I begin, chanting a Hindu prayer I know toshow him I understand. OH! Hindu saram iyeo! he exclaims, seeming to

believe he has come to some understanding of my ethnic identity. I look againat Seans bemused grin. I dont think were going to get to the station ontime, he tells me. And we dont.

6. MY STUDENTS ADVICE

Any advice for me before we part company? I ask my two remainingstudents, HyunSuk and SiWookmiddle school students headed back toTorontoin thefallto continuetheirWesterneducation.We might neversee

each other again, so if you have any advice for me you better tell me now, Iwarn them. Cut your beard before you meet her parents, states HyunSuk.Minutes earlier I had explained the predicament of my age, and we had dis-

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cussedhowit might be a problem formy girlfriendsparents. I hadtold themthat I had given it much thought before concluding we should lie about myage. They had agreed, saying that 28 was the right number to choosethevery number I had suggested in our conversation only the day before. Thisstruck them as a reasonable split that her parents should be able to compre-hend. They said I would look even younger without my beard, a reference toan earlier class discussion:

Whydoyouhaveabeard?Thequestioncomesalongwiththeusualbarrageofrequests for personal informationthataccompany thestart of a new class (otherfavorites beingHow oldare you? Howtall areyou?How much do youget paid?How muchdo you weigh? Whatdo you eat? Where do you live? Do you haveagirlfriend? Areyou getting married? Do youplay soccer?). In reply, I fabricate aRodneyDangerfieldesque story that I thinkmightappeal to their Koreanvaluesand puttheissueto rest.My familyis blessed with younglooks,I explain.My

parents lookyoungerthantheyare, andso do I,I continue.I smile asI tell them,I grew my beard to try to get some respect, because people think Im muchyounger than I am even with thebeard. Without it,my students in collegemightnot even believe Im a teacher! My exaggeration seems to satisfy them, and Idirect their attention to the title of the books sitting on their desks, To Kill a

Mockingbird.

I thank HyunSuk andSiWookfor their advice andtell them seriously thatIm sure it will be helpful for me. We talk about where they will live inToronto,discuss howwell theyget along in Canadiansociety, whatproblemstheyve encountered there previously, andwhat they like about being there. Igive them my e-mail address, telling them that they can contact me if theyever have any problems there, knowing they never will. I shake their hands,tellthem, Catchyoulaterdudes. . . ,andwalk out ofthe classroom.In whatI understand as a truly Korean performance, they nervously smile and

chuckle a little bit as I disappear from their sight.

7. A SAILOR ON THE SUBWAY

Hello!he calls,walking slowlytoward me along theedge of thesubwayplatform. He has the look of an outside workertanned and lean and fear-less. Its almost 11 p.m., and the subway will shut down soon. Its my secondto last night inSeoul,andIve just left mygirlfriend at thestationin herneigh-

borhood of Sindangdong after having a dinner of famous Sindangdongtukboki. Im transferring to the green subway line, which will take medirectly back to Yeoksam. Im feeling quite emotional about the inevitabilityof having to leave my beloved in a day and a half and would prefer to be leftalone just now. Hello!he calls out a second time.Iwonder if hes drunk? I

muse,feel theperturbance inmyselfas heinserts himself into myalready vol-atile emotional mix, then smile coolly and reply, Whassup? There is apause. My job? he puzzles aloud. Hello! he repeats, bold but confused.



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Whassup? I again reply with a big smile. He looks at me afresh, and againmuses,Myjob? No,no, no, . . . Whassup?. . . Whats up. . . likehello, I tellhim. Whajob, hetries toparrot.Hello. . . whajob. . . same same?For somereason it seems to me like all Koreans have learned the phrase same same.Same same,I affirm, then continue,Anyonghasimnika,formal . . . anyonghaseyo, informal. . . . Hello, formal. . . . Whats up, informal. . . . I repeat thisillustration forhim,andhe repeats it back to me to make sure that hes under-stood. Hes happy with this explanation of his new vocabulary, and as we

board the subway together we begin a conversation. In broken English spar-ingly peppered with the sporadic Korean vocabulary Ive learned and man-age to recognize, I find out he is fromBusan where he used to work as a hoteldoorman for 12 years before becoming a ship crane operator so that he couldtravel,whichhesbeendoingforthelast18years.Iestablishthathemustbein

his 50s. His ship makes a circuit from Busan to Japan to China to Seoul andback to Busan. He draws out fromme that Im Canadian,a universitystudentin the United States, and working as a teacher in Seoul for the summer. Sud-denly, he touches my arm and in a serious, quiet voice tells me, See thosepeople? Oh boy! I think to myself. Here it comes! Who could he be talk-ing about? You see . . . him, him, him, him . . . , he points to various menseatedthroughout thesubway car. Uhhuh . . . , I cautiously reply. Look . . .nohair...,hesays,thenpointstomyface.You...hair...me...hair...,hesays to me.OH! You mean thebeard! I happily exclaim andnotice that hesright. . . . Hes probably the first Korean Ive seen wearing a beard apart fromthe youthful hip-hoppers Ive occasionally seen in the streets, who for somereason, I alwayssuspectedwere Japanese anyway. His is a long box-cut style,similar to mine butextending down underneath hischin. Imovertaken withcuriosity. Beard . . . , he tries out the word, pointing around the car, no

beard, no beard, no beard, no beard, you beard, me beard . . . same same, hesays. How come? I almost trip over the two words, Im so excited. Whydont men have beards in Korea? I ask him. Oh, only haraboji (grand-fathers) have beards in Korea, he informs me. OH!! Im struck by thisepiphantic moment of revelation. OOOHHH! I say with glee. Harabojiimnikka? (You are a grandfather?) I askhim. No, not haraboji, he replies. Iask him, How come you have a beard then? Because I dont care! he tellsme.I like it, he smilesand looksatme happily. Same same,he says again.Ye (yes), I like it too, I say. We continue contentedly, friends riding a fewmore minutes together, untilhe gets off twostops before mystation.We shakehands and bow slightly to each other as he makes toward the subway cardoor. I feel a littlebit sadthat Ill never seethis newfriend again.Seated as thetrain rattles out of the station, I think to myself, Finally . . . I think I under-stand something!



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8. EPILOGUE: THE SHAVE

Part IAn Indirect Suggestion

How long have youhad it? Su Yeonasks me onemidsummer afternoonfrom where shes waiting for me, seated on top of my bed. About 5 years orprobably more, I answer from where Im standing beside the kitchen sink,whichisbarelymorethanarmslength awayin mytinyapartment.Oh,thatsa longtime. . . I know youll nevercut itoff . . . its too much partof you . . . ,she tells me. I chuckle a little bit, amused at the importance others seem toplace on my facial hair. Its really not that important to me, I assert lightly.Actually, Ill tell yousomethingfunny . . . theonlyreasonIvereallykeptit all

this time is because when I shave it, there will be a white tan line on my skinfor a couple of days, and I just never wanted to have that on my face, I smilelightheartedly, finally telling someone the truth about the retention of my

beard. Really? she queries with a thoughtful laugh. Oh . . . I guess dontshave it then. . . . A cheerful smile dismisses the topic. I finish washing mydishes, and we descend from my teeny one-room sixth-floor penthouse intothe bright sun to find a coffee shop that makes an iced-mocha worthy of ourpatronage.

Part IIA Saturday Suggestion

Its Saturday morning in Champaign, Illinois. My friend Li Wei is drivingme to go shopping. Its been a summer of change for her. She had told me in

the spring beforeI left for Korea thatshe was going to learn how to drive andthen buy a car, and that when she did, she would take me shopping. We arenowfulfilling hervision. It is obvious from herperformancethat she is a newdriver. Im sitting in the passenger seat terrified, concentrating on maintain-ing my composure while she shows off her newly acquired skill. I compli-ment her new hairstyle, which she also changed during the summer, goingfrom straight long hair to a shorter, layered style. Thank you . . . its good tochange sometimes . . . you can change too if you want to! she coyly tells me.Youcan shave yourbeardif you wantto . . . ,she dangles the words in frontof me. I smile, feeling amused inside. Oh, you think I should shave? I askcraftily. Oh,only if you wantto,she replies cheerfully. Its not important,Itellher.Ionlykeepitoutofhabit,butitreallyisntimportanttome.Isee,she responds, then affirms, It doesnt matter. She takes me from store tostore, andwe shop togetherwhileshe counselsmeonhow tomaintain a long-

distance relationship. I am grateful for her understanding friendship.



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Part IIIThe Melodrama of the Blade

Its an unceremonious morning. Saturday. I look at myself in the mirror.Yep, Id betterdo it,I see the bearded man infrontof mestate.I said itwasno big deal, so lets prove it . . . my identity isnt based on my facial hair. Ismile at myself, chuckling like I do whenever I realize Im talking or mutter-ing to myself. I take my electric hair clippers and cut my whiskers down asclose to my face as theyll take it, then lather up my face and draw the razoracross. Now . . . how long doI leavethesideburns?I decidehalfwaydownmyears should be OK. I rinse my face off and notice, sure enough, a white stripeof skin where my beard used to be. I notice the whiskers above my lip are sothickit is still kind of darkthere. I finishmy morning routine, snap a couple ofpictures of my new face and e-mail them to Su Yeon, then head out into the

sunny day to try to tan my face before Monday comes.

Part IVReactions and Denial

Thanks for the pictures of your sweet face, the e-mail reads. You looknice. Good, I think, She likes it. The reactions have been mostly favor-able to my new aesthetic. Some people dont even notice at first, though Imyself have a bit of an issue getting used to wearing my wedge hats withoutthe facial hair. It was a carefully constructed image after all . . . the Marxistrebel look? . . . modeling solidarity with Latin American revolutionaries . . .Cuba, the Zapatistas, El Salvador, Guatemala, Venezuela, Brazil, Columbia,Nicaragua, Chile. . . . In some ways, perhaps a reminder to myself that everyrevolutionis only just begun,that for many, thestruggle continues on a daily

basis, and maybe even a fulfillment of my own fantasy of solidarity withLouis Riel, leader of the Mtis people, founding father of my home provinceof Manitoba, executed by the Canadian government in 1885. But I mustchange. The world must change, and I must always prove that I can changemyself, and it is, in the end, just a beard.

GrantKien isa doctoralstudentandfellowin theInstituteof CommunicationsResearch, University of Illinois at UrbanaChampaign. The keywords time,space, speed, and society represent his main research interests, studying theuses of portable wirelessdigital technology apart from thecontent they convey.In addition, he works in the Universityof Illinois at UrbanaChampaign Col-lege of Education on the Inter/Intra-Cultural and Cross Cultural TeachingPortal, an online teacher education tool (http://www.ed.uiuc.edu/icctp).


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