Beards are, frankly, one of civilisationās more baffling lapses in judgement. What began as natureās perfectly reasonable way of keeping a manās face warm has somehow evolved into the proud cultivation of a small, hairy ecosystem around the mouth. A beard is essentially a facial doormat: it collects crumbs, soup, coffee, mysterious particles and, presumably, the occasional small mammal. Worse still, its owner invariably strokes it with the solemn satisfaction of a Victorian philosopher, as though he has just discovered the meaning of life rather than spent six months growing a nest on his chin. Give me a clean-shaven face any day ā smooth, hygienic and mercifully free of whatever scummy strata may be accumulating beneath the lower lip.