Every gesture that morning was painful for him. Had he drunk so much of that little mulled wine, or was it that milk vodka he drank to combat the cold of the Mongolian steppes? It was now normal for him to travel the world and randomly indulge in local alcoholic beverages, and there it was: he lost track.
The adrenaline rush that had kept him awake for 48 hours probably had something to do with it. Not to mention the stress of jet lag. And then was it possible to traverse this world without feeling discomfort bordering on disillusionment? Despite everything, he found the strength to gather the materials necessary for his ritual.
Every year on December 26th, Santa Claus shaves. Caring for his fleece was painful for him. Everything was buried there, causing lumps, bad smells and itching. He cleaned it, brushed it, and moisturized it out of obligation, but he relished the prospect of escaping that routine.
He seized the razor like a weapon of long-ago revenge and attacked his tuft of hair. The hair fell out in clumps and depopulated his face. After two hours of work, coupled with a sip of port, he was tipsy again, but above all, freshly shaved. He rediscovered a forgotten man, a face that seemed strange to him. He suddenly opened the lid of the bottle and then returned to his bed.
It usually only took a week for the ridges of his jaw, the dimple of his chin, and the rounded cheeks to be covered by a growing beard. Then his face seemed to regain its true nature. Two months later, when his beard was no longer the size he knew, his face disappeared again into the undergrowth.
But two weeks ago he had shaved and the skin on his face, stained with alcohol and wrinkled with age, remained hairless. Not the slightest abrasive relief, not even a trace of pimples or redness, which, without explaining the delay in regrowth, would have indicated skin activity.
In the weeks that followed, he stubbornly refused to stand in front of the mirror or touch the wrinkles on his face with his fingers. What was the fear of a disruption that could only have temporary value? But the man whose beard was celebrated couldn't resist the urge – no, the need – to look at himself in the mirror for long. Where was this white offspring, soothing as the first snow, hiding the roughness and defects of his face? That beard had been his privilege, and now its absence had become his obsession.
His first instinct was to blame the misfortune: “Why is such an accident happening to me? If I were missing an arm, went deaf or, if necessary, bald, everything would be better… But my beard! What mistake do you want to punish me for so that I lose face like this? »
Mrs. Claus was used to her husband's moodiness, but usually waited for an improvement around March, which could last until October, when the competition of Halloween reignited Santa's inner tree trunks. As April weaved the threads of spring-like rebirth, his mood grew more murderous by the day.
For hours he stared at her face, as hairless as it was when she was eleven. Without the seeming wisdom that his beard gave him, he found this little creature curled up under the thick covering of years. A doubt pervaded his certainty: Had he been appointed simply because he had the right beard for the job?
This beard had been a marked path for him and he had known very early on that his fate was tied to it. All he had to do was follow the path to the throne and wait his turn. The role of Santa Claus led to certain social regulations, but also gave him a power that gave him the impression that he was always within his rights. Her only regret was not having had children. He had a thought for his wife.
For the first time he felt the guilt of a love he could never repay. She had always been too good for him and could she still love him even though he was beardless? This vulnerability was new to him and he sought comfort in his wife's arms, rekindling a long-buried tenderness. He wanted to stop thinking about him for a moment, but he couldn't.
– What should I do ?
The question was broad, but since he had only ever prioritized his work, her answer went along these lines:
— You could put on a fake beard. That's what all your admirers do.
Santa Claus immediately turned around and, as he freed himself, added lead to his words.
– Oh no. Never. I couldn't bear this lie. My beard is everything I am!
He left the room, his body overwhelmed with anger that led him to the bottle. It was a mistake for him to open his heart to Mother Christmas. He alone inevitably held the key to his search.
The new icy September did not shake him out of his torpor, and Mother Christmas ordered him to thwart his dark ideas on the assembly line of the toy factory where the elves had taken over production. Santa never set foot there and it felt like he ended up at the bottom of the ladder.
In truth, he had always been at the top, and in fact his actions betrayed his inexperience. He slowed the chain down when he didn't completely destroy the toy. The elves made fun of this insignificant man when his arrival one morning caused a stir. In one night his beard had grown exponentially. A goblin came towards him.
— Santa Claus, is that you?
– I don't know. I do not know it anymore.
With these words he took his head in his hands and then he felt it: his regrowth, his tuft of wind, his wild forest, his lover, his reason for being. Drue, soon his beard will be curly! He kissed the elf on the forehead and wrapped his legs around his neck.
With a happy heart, he harnessed his sports coupe and a few reindeer and constantly stopped to stroke their faces. Then he reached the sky with a big laugh.
– Hey! Hey! Hey!
He flew aimlessly, intoxicated by bliss, alcohol and speed, multiplying acrobatic loops and demanding excessive speed from his reindeer. After a few hours he finally put the sleigh in front of the house.
Driven by a cheerful urge, Santa Claus accepted all invitations to shopping malls, parades on high streets and appearances in advertisements. His need to show off his manly hair was limitless.
December flew by. Stressed, exhausted and overworked, he became grumpy again. And so, as predictably as a calendar, he began his tour on the evening of the 24th, bottle in hand, steering his sleigh towards the soup of heaven, where Rodolphe's nose merged with the redness of Mars.
Down here, this Christmas seemed to be the same as all the others, but it was impossible to see in the thickness of his beard the little mocking laugh that crossed Santa's face. That of a man who had lost almost everything through his guilt, but who, now intact, believed that he was safe from everything, even more so before his resurrection.
– Hey! Hey! Hey!