The Christmas Beard

by

Lois Francis

---

"That fellow in the red suit better not come around here," my father said. "If I catch him I'll cut his beard off."

Somehow we knew it was a jest, but we were outraged all the same.

"No, you can't do that," we protested.

"He shouldn't have all that hair on his face," Father said. "He looks unkempt."

"He's not unkempt," my little brother declared. "You can't cut his beard. He wouldn't be Santa without a beard."

"Well, he'd better be careful I don't catch him" Father added. He cast an ominous glance at the brick fireplace where a merry fire crackled in festive warmth, as we added the last silver icicles to the Christmas tree.

The next day was Christmas. After church, but before we sat down to our turkey dinner, we heard the jingle of bells on our front porch and a resounding "Ho! Ho! Ho!" Father opened the door and who should walk in but a jolly giant of a man in a red suit and a long snowy beard!

"Merry Christmas!" he boomed, laughing and smiling, and handing us bags of Christmas candy from his big shoulder sack. When he had done the rounds, Father offered him a glass of Christmas cheer.

(It was years before we discovered that our Santa was the famous Winnipeg actor, George Waite, who moonlighted as Public Relations Officer in my father's bank.)

But that day he was Santa, and when he relaxed into an easy chair to toast the season with the other adults, my little brother and I seized the opportunity to challenge Father on his teasing.

"You said you were going to cut off Santa's beard," we said.

Father smiled and shook his head, but we were relentless. Finally he acquiesced and led Santa to the kitchen. We crowded around and watched with horror as he removed scissors from the drawer. Slowly he lifted the great white beard in one hand, and proceeded to shear off a single inch with the other.

"That's enough!" my brother and I screamed together.

And it was enough.