It’s fair to say, as I make my way through Stansted Airport towards the metal detectors and glorified bouncers patrolling them, that I really don’t want to be searched.

I’ve never enjoyed being touched up by the (usually) male attendant who is (always) the size of a brick shithouse. And, without wanting to go into too much detail, I’ve developed a nasty bit of food poisoning involving waterfalls at both ends, so I don’t relish being poked and prodded too much either.

Fortunately, my bag doesn’t set off any alarms and as I self-consciously shuffle through the security system – it’s the only way – I’m relieved by the lack of immediate excitement that follows. I suppose I have no reason to expect otherwise: after all, I’ve removed metallic objects from my pockets and even taken off my belt, which, had I not held up my jeans with my hands, could have led to a disastrous trousers-falling-down situation that could only be interpreted as a come-on to the burly man about to frisk me. But they don’t, and I cross the threshold unscathed.

Then, without warning, the security man has his hands all over me. Bloody hell, I think, he’d be thrown out of Solus for less than this.

I am being searched for dangerous weapons even though the machine designed to find them has come up with nothing. I am under suspicion for absolutely no reason at all.

How annoying. How embarrassing. How utterly predictable.

Ever since I grew my first beard in the sixth form (and was asked by a bloke in Dukes nightclub, “Oi mate, is you Muslim?”), I have been looked at in a very different light, usually through sideways glances. The hirsute look seems to make people uneasy, as if I can be trusted no more with my life than I can with a razor. Going through London with a backpack, the reaction reaches hysteria levels – people look fearful and some actually move away from me.

And though this is my first flight bearded, I know exactly what to expect. Agitation from other passengers; suspicion from the authorities. It continues through the airport: my passport is studied much longer than anyone else’s, stewards start fidgeting when I reach into my pockets and on the whole I get so much unwanted attention that as I take my shoes off for the added security check, I feel like scaring a few people by saying, “Ah, it’s just like in my Mosque.”

Because in the two years I have had this, my second beard, I have been told three things on a regular basis:

i) I look like a tramp.

ii) I look like a Muslim.

iii) I look like a terrorist.

And, ignoring i) for a moment, it’s what people see as a natural connection between ii) and iii) that concerns me. I find it deeply saddening that so many people find it a logical step from ‘Muslim’ to ‘terrorist’.

You can see this on the street every day: “His jacket looks dodgy”; “Oi mate, ‘Allah Akbar!’”; and, towards Muslim women wearing burkhas, an appalling ‘Middle East’ accent and the words, “Does my bomb look big in this?” These examples aren’t taken from a small demographic; this fear, ignorance and casual racism is everywhere.

And, mysteriously, it seems to incorporate those of us who grow hair on our faces. I find myself on the receiving end of the same jokes (well, not the one about the burkha), and the same scrutiny, and the same mistrust. And I’m not the only one: I met a lovely bearded chap by the name of Ben who said the looks he gets, especially when carrying a camping bag big enough to hold a bomb, have made him totally paranoid. As he put it, “As someone who sees himself as a nice, friendly person, it is terrifying to see people being terrified of me.”

In his BBC programme ‘Travels with my Beard’, Rajesh Thind, a British Asian, explained his decision to grow a beard after a few days’ growth caused him to be searched on the Tube under Section 44 of the Terrorism Act. His ‘investigation’ of sorts uncovered a fearful, intolerant London, with people giving him a wide berth, even letting him have whole Tube carriages to himself (the one upside, I imagine). Upon being stopped and searched by police for the fourth time (something he’d never experienced clean-shaven), he asked if it was the beard that put him under suspicion. “Just face it – you look dodgy,” came the reply.

However, that was in the weeks following the July 7th bombings in London. Though in no way excusable, trepidation around anyone Asian and bearded was, perhaps, to be expected. But as time has passed, the culture of fear has quietened somewhat; isn’t it time the culture of ignorance and intolerance passed too?

The Australian ex-cricketer and commentator Dean Jones was sacked last year for calling South African cricketer Hashim Amla “the terrorist”. That’s some inspiring commentary. Amla, a devout Muslim, has a fantastic beard slightly reminiscent of W. G. Grace’s – though Grace, self-obsessed, whinging wanker that he was, was never accused of wanting to bring the West to its knees, which is effectively what Jones suggested about Amla.

It’s the fact Jones called him “the terrorist”, not “a terrorist”, that worries me, as though Amla’s faith and facial hair require him to be designated a role; a nickname, even. As a Muslim playing for South Africa, he’s clearly in the minority. But that doesn’t mean he should be singled out, and especially not in this fashion.

And, to return to selfish reasons, I don’t see why I should be either. The mistrust with which I am treated actually involves a double whammy of stupid assumptions: that because I have a beard I am a Muslim, and that because I am a Muslim I am a terrorist. Make of that what you will. I would love to think people don’t link the two apparent resemblances in any way, but I know for a fact that is naïve – as naïve as the people who think that because I don’t shave, I am potentially dangerous. Strangely, I’ve never been accused of looking like a Christian terrorist.

Clearly the beard isn’t doing me any favours – apparently I also resemble Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper – but I think I’ll keep it for now. While it keeps narrow-minded airline passengers in a state of sheer panic, it’s worth it.