Bushy beard that lures (and only his) out from a face that abounded, surrounded by, lied. It's that way.
He now stalked the streets and lanes. The desire was to walk; he thought it an excellent confidence booster. Though is shouldn't be. He would dream, of seeing it gathered, hacked off in clumps. He would wake and query, no it's still there, it's still in place. He feared that he'd cut it off if he got drunk, so he feared drinking alcohol, but events were out of control. Most didn't find it too hard but he liked to drink alone and so it returned to him, stealing over the light. He was helpless, he wanted to cut it off. No he didn't want that at all.
He grew a beard. It was a large, bushy beard that obscured most of his features but his beetle bug eyes peeped out still even though nearly everything else was covered with hair. Good. He wanted that. He felt safer when he had it, no longer felt the urge to walk in the shadows. He treasured the disguise: a real confidence booster. It did itch though and at night he thought about shaving it off and allowing it to gather around his feet in clumps. He had to quickly check it was still there, he might have shaved it off.
He avoided seeing the social question of its presence. Anyway he didn't care and had never cared. Too many memories, too much darkness. He didn't want that feeling, he didn't.