A face-to-face encounter with differences

Workforce, June, 2002 by Tom Terez

In 1991, I left the world of "working for someone else" to start my own business. The timing seemed right--I had just written two business books, and solid experience added weight to my Duke University MBA. There was just one problem. Even though I was 28, I looked like Opie, the wholesome little boy from TV's Mayberry.

See that tiny picture of me? How old do you think I look? Most people peg me at 32. Some put me in my twenties. Bartenders are convinced I'm 12. In reality, I'm a year away from the big 4-0.

Countless people, most of whom are members of AARP, tell me I'll be grateful for my youthful appearance later in life. "Later in life" is getting closer every day, and I'm starting to understand what they mean. The Opie look ain't all that bad.

But 11 years ago, it was hell. During visits with sales prospects, I kept getting the same questions: "When did you graduate?" "How long have you been doing this?" "Are you related to Opie?" People stopped just short of asking for my birth certificate.

So I decided to approach the problem head-on--by retiring my electric razor. That's right, with the hope of looking older and more mature, I elected to join the ranks of the 10 percent of American males who have facial hair.

For the next three weeks, I looked like Opie in that lost episode where he spills hair-growing formula on his chin. Whenever I looked in the mirror, which was about 5,372 times a day, I saw an eighth-grader with blotchy hair patches on his face. Be patient, I counseled myself. Sure enough, after a few more weeks, the beard filled out and I looked as old as... a college freshman.

New sales also sprouted. I added three clients during the next four weeks. No one asked my age.

Then I paid a sales visit to someone I'll call Mr. Smithington. At the time, the gentleman owned a company that trained salespeople. I found this rather daunting--selling to an expert on selling. Thank goodness I had the beard, right? Wrong.

About two minutes into our meeting, while we were still standing after the obligatory handshake, Mr. Smithington leaned toward me, closing our distance to two feet. He stopped talking and locked his gaze onto the lower half of my face. I could feel my skin taking on the rosy hue that covered Opie's face in that episode where he's caught spending the milk money on candy.

The staring went on for an eternity, after which Mr. Smithington eased back, took a deep breath, and declared: "Shave that thing off. You'll sell more."

My rosy hue deepened to crimson. Shave it off? SHAVE IT OFF? Do you know what I look like underneath this thing? Do you have any great-grandchildren, Mr. Smithington? Well, that's what I look like, Mr. Smithington. Would you buy consulting services from your great-grandchild?

I wanted to say all these things and a few more. Instead I politely thanked him for his advice, completed the meeting, and spent the next few days pondering our encounter. I could see the humor in it, but I also saw the serious side. People talk a lot about valuing differences, yet here I was being told to shave mine off.

To vent my frustration in a positive way, I wrote a guest column about diversity for the Cincinnati Enquirer. It told my story of growing the beard and encountering Mr. Smithington. The article ended with this question: What's it like to have a prominent difference that can't be shaved off?

As soon as the article was published, calls and letters poured in. Many people shared their own stories, telling me how they'd struggled with differences in workplaces that prize sameness and predictability. Nearly all of their experiences had far more significance than my little foray into the bearded world.

Among the detractors, one letter-writer had clipped Out the article and covered it with foul language and various unpleasant suggestions about where I should go and what I should do. "You look like Satan," he wrote.

Imagine it: I had mutated from Opie to Satan in two months. My skin-deep thoughts about youthful appearance quickly evolved into contemplations about the struggle for diversity, tolerance, and acceptance. I decided to keep the beard, not to look older, but to wage my own battle for differences.

As the next few years unfolded, I encountered more Mr. Smithingtons. The last time a person gave me the shave-it-off advice, I had a quick response: "With or without the beard, I bring the same knowledge and work ethic."

On a Saturday morning in 1994, I spotted my electric razor at the back of a drawer. I thought about my original reasons for growing the beard, and they now seemed pretty thin. It seems I had learned about diversity and about the need to be yourself. So I plugged in the razor, put it to work, and rinsed my beard down the drain.

End of story, I thought--until a sales call a month later. The prospect, whom we'll call Mr. Smithington Jr., leaned toward me and fixed his gaze on my face. "You look awfully young," he said.

"Funny you should mention that," I responded. "Let me tell you about my beard."