You can see it on my face

It’s been 31 days since my father, Moshe Loshinsky, passed away. Jewish tradition provides us with “stages” in our mourning process. There was the day I was an “onen,” between his death and the burial when I wasn’t supposed to perform certain commandments, like putting on tefillin or making any blessings. That was strange, but I was still in the shock of realizing he was gone. Next came the “shiva,” seven days of being surrounded and comforted by family and friends, sharing stories about my dad. After getting up from shiva, there are three weeks left until the “shloshim,” the next stage in which there are different customs and restrictions, gradually easing me back into my life, albeit a different one. My new life does not include discussing the Dodgers’ pitching strategy with my dad, or him telling me I need a haircut or a shave.

Today is day 31. I can finally get that haircut and shave after a month of looking increasingly “grizzly.” As a man who likes to always be clean-shaven, I search for any excuse to shave even during times of the year when it is customary not to – like sefirat ha’omer or the three weeks. Any siyum, any Rosh Chodesh, any legitimate or semi-legitimate excuse and I reach for my shaver. I hate the feeling of a beard. It’s itchy and uncomfortable.

Yet, today, I cannot bring myself to shave it off.

I get that as time passes from the time of my father’s death, the restrictions ease, as does that feeling I’ve been punched in the gut. Yes, my father was ill. No, his passing was not a shock. And yet, it was. I was part of a very select and very lucky group of people. At the age of 66, I still got to leave shul for that part of “Yizkor” when people remember their parents. At the age of 66, I still got to consult my father about stock tips, and I still got admonished for coming late to shul – or anywhere, for that matter. Until just recently, I got to sit in Beit Knesset Hanasi and “kvell” as my father acted as gabbai and made announcements. He was the kind of man who just made sure everything ran smoothly. As Rabbi Kenigsburg said in his eulogy – there are people who do so much without you knowing it, and it’s only when they’re gone, and things start going awry, that you become aware of how much they did.

There’s something to be said for the fact that this unkempt beard is a sign that I’m feeling more vulnerable than usual. It prompts people I don’t know well to ask if I’ve lost someone close, and it gives me the opportunity to tell them about my father. (It also prompts others to take the opportunity to tell me I look like a bum.)

I am looking forward in many ways to the end of shloshim. I don’t like leading the congregation in prayer, as it is customary for me to do at least for this month. My father loved it and had a beautiful voice. He was a civil engineer by training, but a chazan by choice. I do not like the pressure of wondering if I am pronouncing every word correctly, pausing at all the right places, and checking to see if the local mohel is wearing a white shirt today, meaning we skip “tachanun.” My father loved all the intricate details of what it takes to be a good chazan. Not me.

And yet, I am procrastinating and not shaving today. I’m not ready to shed that layer that tells the world I suffered a very sad, though not tragic, loss. I’m not ready to get on with my life, even though just finding a minyan three times a day for the next ten months will be quite the distraction.

So, I will look like a bum for one more day. Maybe two. And feel free to ask me about my father. He was a larger-than-life personality who left his mark on this world. And I already miss him more than this scraggly beard can show.