In my life I have grown three beards, covering many of my adult faces. My present hairiness is monumental, and I intend to carry it into the grave. (I must avoid chemotherapy.) A woman has instigated each beard, the original bush requested by my first wife, Kirby. Why did she want it? Maybe she was tired of the same old face. Or maybe she thought a beard would be raffish; I did. In the fifties, no one wore beards. In Eisenhower’s day, as in the time of the Founding Fathers, all chins were smooth, while during the Civil War beards were as common as sepsis. Both my New Hampshire great-grandfathers wore facial hair, the Copperhead who fought in the war and the sheep farmer too old for combat. By the time I was sentient, in the nineteen-thirties, only my eccentric cousin Freeman was bearded, and even he shaved once a summer. Every September he endured a fortnight of scratchiness. Many men, after trying a beard for five or six days, have wanted to claw off their skin. They have picked up their Gillettes.

Despite the itch, I persisted until I looked something like a Brady photograph, or at least not like a professor of English literature at the University of Michigan. The elderly chairman of the department was intelligent and crafty. When he spoke in well-constructed paragraphs, with inviolate syntax, he sounded like a Member of Parliament—except for his Midwestern accent. He always addressed me as “Hall,” and used last names for all his staff. The summer of the beard, I dropped in at the department to pick up my mail. I wore plastic flip-flops, sagging striped shorts, a Detroit Tigers T-shirt, and a grubby stubble like male models in Vanity Fair. My chairman greeted me, noting my rank: “Good morning, Professor Hall.”

Dinner parties and cocktail parties dominated every Ann Arbor weekend. Women wore girdles; the jacket pockets of men’s gray suits showed the fangs of handkerchiefs. Among the smooth-faced crowds of Chesterfield smokers, I enjoyed cigars, which added to the singularity of my beard and rendered living rooms uninhabitable. When I lectured to students I walked up and down with my cigar, dropping ashes in a tin wastebasket. The girls in the front row smoked cigarettes pulled from soft, blue leather pouches stamped with golden fleurs-de-lis. As the sixties began, if I was sluggish beginning my lecture—maybe I had stayed up all night with a visiting poet—I paused by the front row and asked if anyone had some of those diet things. Immediately, female hands held forth little ceramic boxes full of spansules or round, pink pills. After I ingested Dexedrine, my lecture speeded up and rose in pitch until only dogs could hear it.

When I was bearded and my mother visited me, she stared at the floor, addressing me without making eye contact. Why did she hate beards so intensely? She adored her hairy grandfathers and her cousin Freeman. Her father, Wesley, of the next generation, shaved once or twice a week. On Saturday night before Sunday’s church, Wesley perched on a set tub. Looking into the mirror of a clock, he scraped his chin with a straight razor.

In 1967, my marriage, which had faltered for years, splintered and fell apart. As Vietnam conquered American campuses, I hung out with students who weaned me from cigars to cigar joints. “Make love not war” brought chicks and dudes together, raising everyone’s political consciousness. Middle-class boys from Bloomfield Hills proved they belonged to the movement by begging on the streets for spare change. A professor of physics told a well-dressed panhandler, “Get it from your mother.” When the student said, “She won’t give it to me,” the physicist answered, “That’s funny, she gave it to me this morning.”

I signed the last divorce papers while anesthetized for a biopsy of my left testicle. It was benign, but divorces aren’t. I shaved because the world had altered. Although my mother fretted about the divorce, she looked at my face again. My sudden singleness and my naked skin confused my friends. I was still invited to dinner parties, and therefore gave dinner parties back. I invited eight people for dinner. When I noticed that I had no placemats, I substituted used but laundered diapers, which I had bought for drying dishes. For dinner I served two entrées, Turkey Salad Amaryllis and Miracle Beans. I bought three turkey rolls, cooked them and chopped them up with onions and celery, then added basil and two jars of Hellmann’s Real. It was delicious, and so were Miracle Beans. Warm ten cans of B&Ms, add basil again, add dry mustard, stir, and serve. My friends enjoyed my dinner parties. I served eight bottles of chilled Louis Latour Chassagne-Montrachet Cailleret.

Five years later, I married Jane Kenyon, a poetry student who, by the time of her death in 1995, published four books and earned a Guggenheim. It was exhilarating to live with her as her work became better. The better and more successful her poetry became, the more she permitted herself to be pretty, and her face became prettier. Late photographs of Jane reveal two sides, both beautiful. In one she is utterly spiritual, almost ready to turn bodiless; in another she is horny. Her poetry combined the two Janes, which is exactly what poems must do. When we married, I was clean shaven. She looked at old photographs and decided that I should grow a beard again. She observed my itchy agony. She wrote a poem called “The First Eight Days of the Beard.”

A page of exclamation points. A class of cadets at attention. A school of eels. Standing commuters. A bed of nails for the swami. Flagpoles of unknown countries. Centipedes resting on their laurels. The toenails of the face.

After a few weeks, my facial hair looked like a beard, not like carelessness, and after two months, it flourished. I wished it would hang straight down and cover my belly, but it always grew tightly curled, as pubic as Santa Claus.

For three years, we stayed in Ann Arbor. We loved the house we lived in, old-fashioned with many bedrooms, but it was in a crowded part of town, and we did not like living among people. Once a year, we visited the farmhouse in New Hampshire where my grandmother Kate survived in her nineties, and where I had spent childhood summers. We could see, from the porch, a cottage down the road, built for a farmhand in the eighteen-nineties, and nothing else that resembled a house. Jane fell in love with this 1803 solitary clapboard structure, with its 1865 barn and collapsing sugarhouse. It backed up to Ragged Mountain, which had provided pasturage for my grandfather’s cattle. Mt. Kearsarge was five miles south. Fields of grass filled the narrow valleys. She loved Thornley’s Store down the street—wine and stovepipe, roast beef and souvenir ashtrays—where the neighborhood gathered to joke and gossip in the morning. We drove gawking on dirt roads around Eagle Pond, through a pig farm, and up New Canada Road, past Freeman’s collapsed shack. During one visit, on a Sunday, we attended the South Danbury Christian Church, where my grandmother played the organ for eighty years. My cousins called me “Donnie” and the preacher quoted “Rilke the German poet.”

After my grandmother entered Peabody Home, we agreed with my mother and her sisters that we would buy the farmhouse when she died. In 1975, I quit my tenure and we moved from Ann Arbor to New Hampshire. It was daunting to pay for groceries and the mortgage by freelance writing—but it worked, and I loved doing it. Our move made for the best years of our existence. My poems improved, and I wrote magazine pieces about baseball and New Hampshire. Year after year, Jane committed to the life of poetry, and we thrived in double solitude. (The New Hampshire Constitution prohibits dinner parties.) One day followed another, a bliss of sameness—and I plotted a distraction.