Every gesture this morning was painful to him. Had he drunk so much of this little mulled wine, or was it this milk vodka that he had drunk against the cold of the Mongolian steppes? Traveling around the world treating himself to random slates of local alcohols was now commonplace for him and there it was: he lost count.
The rush of adrenaline, which had kept him awake for 48 hours, surely also had something to do with it. Not to mention the stress of jet lag. And then, was it possible to cross this world without feeling a discomfort bordering on disillusionment? Despite everything, he found the strength to gather the materials necessary for his ritual.
Every year on December 26, Santa Claus shaves. Maintaining his fleece was painful for him. Everything was buried there, generating knots, foul odors and itching. Out of obligation, he cleaned it, brushed it and moisturized it, but the prospect of being able to escape from this routine was sweet to him.
Seizing the razor like the weapon of long-spent vengeance, he attacked his tuft. The hairs fell out in clusters, depopulating his face. After two hours of work interspersed with sips of port, he was once again tipsy, but above all, freshly shaved. He rediscovered a forgotten man, a face from which he felt foreign. In one go, he uncapped the bottle, then returned to his bed.
Usually, it only took a week for the ridges of his jaw, the dimple of his chin, and the roundness of his cheeks to be covered with a growing beard. His face then seemed to regain its true nature. Two months later, without his beard having the size it was known for, his face was lost again in the brush.
But two weeks ago he had shaved and the skin on his face, stained by alcohol and wrinkled by age, remained hairless. Not the slightest abrasive relief nor even the trace of pimples or redness which, without explaining the delay in regrowth, would have indicated skin activity.
In the following weeks, he stubbornly refused to stop in front of the mirror or search the folds of his face with his fingers. What was the anxiety of a disorder that could only be temporary worth? But the man whose beard was celebrated couldn’t resist for too long the urge – no, the need – to look at himself in the mirror. Where was this white regrowth, soothing like the first snow, which concealed the roughness and defects of his face? This beard had been his prerogative, and now its absence became his obsession.
His first instinct was to blame bad luck: “Why is such misfortune happening to me? If I was missing an arm, if I had become deaf or, if necessary, I was bald, everything would be better… But my beard! What fault do they want to punish me for to make me lose face in this way? »
Mrs. Claus was used to her husband’s volatile nature, but she usually waited for a clearing up around March, which could last until October, when the competition with Halloween would reignite Santa’s inner logs. Now, as April weaved the threads of the vernal rebirth, its mood grew more murderous every day.
For hours, he gazed at her face, hairless as it was when she was eleven. Without the apparent wisdom that his beard gave him, he found this little being, curled up under the thick shell of years. A doubt pierced his certainties: had he been appointed simply because he had the beard for the job?
This beard had been a path marked out for him and, very early on, he had known that his destiny was linked to it. He just had to follow the path to the throne and wait for his turn to come. The role of Santa Claus induced certain social prescriptions, but also conferred a power which gave him the impression of always being within his rights. Her only regret was not having had children. He had a thought for his wife.
He felt, for the first time, the debt of a love that he had never been able to repay. She had always been too good for him and, while he was beardless, could she still love him? This vulnerability was new to him and he sought comfort in his wife’s arms, reviving a long-buried tenderness. He wanted to stop thinking about him for a moment, but he couldn’t.
– What am I going to do ?
The question was broad, but since he had always only prioritized his work, she took her answer in this direction:
— You could put on a fake beard. That’s what all your admirers do.
Immediately, Santa Claus turned his back and then, while freeing himself, he added lead to his words.
– Oh no. Never. I couldn’t carry this lie. My beard is everything I am!
He left the room, his body overcome by rage which led him towards the bottle. He was wrong to open his heart to Mother Christmas. He alone, inevitably, held the key to his quest.
The newfound icy slap of September did not shake him from his torpor, and Mother Christmas ordered him to thwart his dark ideas on the assembly line of the toy factory, where the elves had taken over production. Santa Claus never set foot there and he had the impression of returning to the bottom of the ladder.
In truth, he had always been only at the top and, indeed, his actions betrayed his inexperience. He slowed down the chain, when he didn’t completely break the toys. The elves made fun of this insignificant man when one morning his arrival caused a sensation. In one night, his beard had grown exponentially. A goblin came towards him.
— Santa Claus, is that you?
– I don’t know. I do not know anymore.
With these words, he took his head in his hands, and then he felt it: his regrowth, his tuft of winds, his wild forest, his beloved, his reason for being. Drue, soon to be curly, his beard! He kissed the elf on the forehead and took his legs around his neck.
With a happy heart, he harnessed his sports coupe and a few reindeer, stopping constantly to caress her face. Then, with a great laugh, he reached the heavens.
— Ho! Ho! Ho!
He flew aimlessly, in the intoxication of bliss, alcohol and speed, multiplying acrobatic loops, demanding an excessive pace from his reindeer. After a few hours, he finally put the sled in front of the house.
Driven by a jovial compulsion, Santa Claus accepted all the invitations to shopping centers, parades on commercial avenues and appearances in advertisements. His need to show off his manly hair was limitless.
December flew by quickly. Stressed, exhausted and overworked, he became grumpy again. And so, as predictable as a calendar, on the evening of the 24th, he began his tour, flask in hand, guiding his sleigh towards the soup of the sky, where Rodolphe’s nose merged with the redness of Mars.
Down here, this Christmas seemed the same as all the others, but it was impossible to distinguish, in the thickness of his beard, the little mocking laugh that crossed Santa Claus’ face. That of a man who, through his fault, had almost lost everything, but who, now unharmed, believed himself to be safe from everything, even stronger from his resurrection.
— Ho! Ho! Ho!