Why do so many bald men have beards? Is it just because it looks better? Because the beard balances the bare scalp?
Or is it something deeper?
A quiet, obsessive compulsion to control something in the face of losing something else?
“I can’t control the hair on my head,” we tell ourselves, “but I can damn sure show you I can grow hair on my face.”
I’ve lived the entire journey. I’ve been every version of the bald man you can imagine: hair, hats, denial, acceptance, stubble, full beard, shaved clean, and everything in between.
Back in the day I had long, great hair for as long as I could hold onto it. Think Bon Jovi meets early Agassi. By 22, my hairline was moving back, like Chris Berman calling a home run: “back, back, back…”
My friends joked about my five-head. I didn’t panic. I tried minoxidil and finasteride; back then, that was all we had, and neither did much. I told myself, when it’s time, I’ll shave it.
And that was that.
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I wasn’t going to be the guy with a bald spot, a comb-over, or a few thin strands pretending to be a hairstyle. I wanted to be decisive. All or nothing.
And if I’ve learned anything since then, it’s this:
Shaving your head and growing a beard is not about the hair. It’s about ownership.
Every time I grow a beard, I feel better. More like myself. It changes how I move and how I carry myself. There’s something powerful about it. Then it gets too long, too wild, and I want a reset. I shave everything—head, beard, all of it—and for about twelve hours I feel cleansed. Then I look in the mirror and can’t stand it.
I always come back to the middle.
A few days of stubble on my head, a few weeks on my beard. That’s my balance between clean and careless, between effort and ease. I’m not a “trim the neckline” guy either. There’s something masculine about not looking too perfect. I’d rather pair an imperfect beard with great skin, well-tailored clothes, and good sunglasses.
Funny enough, I wear fewer hats now that I’m bald than I did when I was balding. Back then, the hat was armor. Now, it’s an accessory. I’m not hiding anymore. I’m owning it.
I’ve never looked at a guy who shaved his head while balding and thought he looked better before. Never. Once you start losing it, keeping your hair short, buzzed, or clean-shaven just looks better. Nothing ages a man faster than a comb-over or a cover-up.
Once you’re balding, take hair out of the equation. Get a set of clippers and live between a “1” and a “2.”
What I’d Do Now
Back in the ’90s, hair transplants looked awful. Pluggy, scarred, unnatural. I was more afraid of a bad transplant than I was of being bald. The idea of not being able to cleanly shave my head terrified me more than a receding hairline.
Today, that’s changed. Hair restoration has become almost an art form. I have clients who’ve had transplants, and you’d never know unless they told you. They’re that good.
If I were starting to lose my hair now, in my fifties, I still wouldn’t do it. I’ve been married for twenty-five years. My kids are grown. I’m in great shape. I don’t need or care about hair anymore. But if I were thirty in 2025? Maybe. Forties? Not so sure.
Just not on the cheap. You won’t see me booking a “Turkish Hairlines” trip for a discount surgery. Some things—like your face and your head—aren’t worth bargaining over. There are still some bad ones out there. The kind with that perfectly straight, unnatural hairline. I’ve never had a nightmare about being bald, but a bad transplant? That would do it.
If I ever did it, it’d be with my son. A father-and-son restoration trip. It’s a strange thought, but I’ve had it. Maybe because my own dad wasn’t around for these kinds of conversations.
That’s why I tell my boys what I wish someone told me. Women don’t care if you’re bald. They care if you’re confident. They care if you’re kind, capable, funny, fit, and interesting. They care that you take care of yourself, dress well, and show up.
You can be bald.
You can’t be fat and bald.
You can’t be fat, bald and lazy.
That’s why every conversation about baldness and beards ends up with the same word: confidence.
What people really notice isn’t your hairline. It’s your energy.
If you’re bald and fit, you look strong and confident. If you’re bald and soft, you look defeated.
When I lost my hair, I built my confidence in other ways: through fitness, fashion, and discipline. The beard became part of that identity. A visible signal that I take care of myself and that I’m comfortable in my own skin.
Maybe that’s the root of it: control.
We lose control on top, so we assert it where we can. On our faces, in our bodies, in our habits, in how we show up.
That’s why most bald men have beards. It’s not just style. It’s a statement. It’s saying, you can take my hair, but you can’t take my edge.
At this stage in life, the question isn’t whether to beard or not to beard. It’s who you are when the hair is gone.
Confidence beats coverage every time.
Ownership beats obsession.
Simplicity, done well, is always the most sophisticated look.
My advice:
If you’re losing it, let it go.
If you can grow it, grow it.
If you want to fix it, fix it.
Whatever you do, own it.
Find your middle. The stubble. The balance. The version of you that feels most like you.
Because the goal isn’t to look perfect. It’s to look authentic.
And that, my friends, looks good on every man.
In Health,
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Greg Scheinman
Founder, Midlife Male
52. Husband. Father. Entrepreneur. Coach.
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