I’ve shaved before.
But never like this.

There’s shaving…
and then there’s standing in front of 60 people while they line up — literally line up — to take turns removing your beard like it’s some kind of community art project.

For context: my beard is not just facial hair.
It is part of my identity.
It has its own authority.
It has been with me through business wins, sleepless newborn years, caffeine dependencies, and at least three existential crises (probably more).

The beard has seen things.

So when my team set a Movember goal — “If we hit $2,000, Broden has to shave his beard” — I laughed.
Nervously.
Then loudly.
Then nervously again.

I said yes because it’s for charity, and I figured maybe they’d get close.
Maybe they’d hit $1,200.
Maybe they’d forget.
Maybe the economy would slow down and sabotage their fundraising momentum.

But no.
The team hit the goal so fast it felt like they were actively trying to ruin me.

And they didn’t stop at $2,000.
They just… kept going.
People donated.
Clients donated.
Community donated.
Then someone suggested, “We should invite everyone to the BBQ and shave it off in front of them.”

Great idea.
Fantastic.
Why not just sell tickets and livestream my humiliation while we’re at it.

The day of the BBQ, people showed up with an energy usually reserved for football finals.
There was cheering.
There were phones out.
There were professional clippers.
And I'm pretty sure someone had scissors "just in case the good ones died — wouldn’t want to leave the job unfinished.”

Then it happened.

I sat on a chair in the outside of Eight Fifty Espresso, surrounded by friends, staff, customers, strangers, and people who I’m pretty sure didn’t even know who I was but came purely to watch a beard die.

The first swipe was shocking.
A cold breeze touched skin that hadn’t seen sunlight since Malcolm Turnbull was Prime Minister.

People queued — actually queued — to take turns shaving a stripe off my face like it was some kind of facial hair degustation.

We went through all the beard styles on the way down.
Mutton chops.
The creepy thin moustache.
The truck-stop goatee.
The “I haven’t emotionally recovered from the early 2000s” chin patch.
By the end of it, I looked like a 14-year-old trying to buy beer illegally.

Later that evening when I got home, my daughters cried.
Not metaphorically — literal tears.
“Daddy, WHY?”
“What happened to your face?”
“Put it back!”
“You look like a potato!”

Kids are brutally honest philosophers.

Elise laughed so hard she nearly fell over.
Apparently, she finds my pain “endearing.”

And yet, in the middle of the humiliation, something started to shift.

Somewhere between the laughter, the clippers, and the kids yelling “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE,” I realised the beard didn’t matter.

I thought it did.
I thought it represented something about me — identity, confidence, age, authority.

It didn’t.
It never did.
It was just hair.

What mattered was the reason behind losing it.
The team effort.
The community energy.
The cause we were supporting.
The conversations it sparked.
The awareness raised.
The thousands of dollars going toward men’s health — real change, real support, real impact.

My beard wasn’t being shaved off.
My ego was.

And thank god for that.

The Stoics talk endlessly about letting go of externals.
Your appearance.
Your reputation.
Your status.
Your image.

Beards included.

Marcus Aurelius wrote that our identities are always changing, and the more we cling, the more we suffer.
Seneca would have looked at my pre-shave panic and said, “Mate, it’s hair. Control your mind, not your grooming.”

We cling to tiny symbols — the beard, the job title, the fancy watch, the car, the things we think make us “us.”

But they don’t.
Your identity is not what sits on your face.
It’s what sits in your actions.

On a normal week, I wouldn’t volunteer to have my dignity shaved off in public.
But raising thousands for Movember?
Supporting mental health?
Showing up for the cause?
Letting the team turn me into a side-show act because it fuels something bigger?

That’s worth every humiliating before-and-after photo.

After the shave, people genuinely didn’t recognise me.
My daughters wouldn’t look at me 24 hours (and counting).
The cat stared at me like she was trying to work out who I was — they were tripping hard.
Elise made the very helpful comment: “Your chin is pointier than I remember.”

All of it was funny.
All of it was ridiculous.
All of it was worth it.

And that’s kind of what this whole newsletter is about — the fact that life constantly asks you to choose between ego and purpose.
Between comfort and contribution.
Between holding on and letting go.

And often, the best decision — the one that feels strangely good — is the one that frees you from yourself.

The beard will grow back.
The lesson will stay.

And if you’d like to support Movember before the month wraps, you can donate here:
👉 DONATE TO MOVEMBER HERE​

Thousands raised.
Dozens of laughs.
One deeply traumatised chin.
But I’d do it again tomorrow.

If this gave you a laugh or a little perspective, feel free to forward it to someone who needs it.
If this was forwarded to you, you can get these straight to your inbox every week:​
👉 brodenjohnson.co

Until next week,

Broden Johnson
​