To beard or not to beard.

Having mumbled about this before but, obviously, nobody listened, I try again.

Please. Don’t love it. Shove it. Don’t grow it, stow it.

DiCaprio, who never met a model he didn’t like, flashes a face that doubles for a muskrat.

Good-looking Affleck’s got his chin draped like a geranium bush.

Jon Hamm, reportedly too handsome to cop an award, has trotted around à la Smokey the Bear.

Dennis Quaid did ear-to-ear hair.

About Zach Galifianakis, so what. We’re not exactly talking Brad Pitt here, who, by the way, also shows up razor-deprived.

Hugh Jackman. His Wolverine’s movie nails are longer than Streisand’s. But why schlep around unshaven?

The famous nostril-to-nostril Tom Selleck thatch.

Ben Bernanke. But, like, who cares — right?

Dudes now go for waxing their various parts, so why feature grins that are grizzly? Should females now not shave their armpits? Legs? Assorted geographical areas?

DO ladies find this sexy? Does it make male pygmies feel like giants?

The thing’s smelly, dirty, icky. Attracts dust. Catches dribbles. Snags in inopportune moments. Collects egg salad droplets. Who looks to kiss it? You want to vacuum it. If Skippy congeals in a ringlet, you need a machete.

This week’s temporary screen hero Daniel Craig jumps trains, bombs planes, smashes cars, bashes crooks, shoots, runs, leaps buildings, makes love, makes movies, makes money. He says he craves a moustache.

Snowden, the little piggy who went to market, the little piggy who’s peeing wee wee wee and should’ve stayed all the way home. Semi-shaven. Maybe the better to hide his mouth.

In days of yore, ratty shrimpy guys had face fuzz. Card-carrying schlump Castro. Genghis Khan, a lousy 5-foot-1. Midget Ahmadinejad, who can’t reach Snooki’s armpit. Stalin did handlebars. Hitler, we know. Napoleon, I don’t recall. I only know he had a bad milliner.

Forget Colonel Sanders, Swami Satchidananda, Honest Abe or those ratty-looking Smith Brothers, who made crappy cough drops.

Now it’s the good-looking dudes. Mutton chops, goatees, Van Dykes, Santa Claus jobs tamp down insecurities. Same as that Duchess going without a barrette or braless Heidi Klum flashing the boobs. In a man’s case it makes those wimpy feel more manly.

Jon Corzine, of the good old days, also had chin growth. Also had a career.

Channing Tatum has a beard. And moustache. And little furry island under his lower lip. Spike Lee, we’re already used to. Now comes once squeaky clean Steve Carell. I asked why. He said: “I don’t have to keep up the image anymore. Getting too old and tired and impatient.”

A new jaw on the block is Jonathan Rhys Meyers, who was Henry VIII in “The Tudors.” Besides three names, he’s got a Rodin sculpture under his lip. High in the middle, low on the ends stache. Scraggly chin. Makes you long for the plain old Kenny Rogers/Kris Kristofferson stubble.

Listen, those doilies date back. Ulysses Grant? He needed something special to counteract his first name. In passion’s throes, can you imagine a hot lady moaning, “Go, Ulysses, go?”

William Cullen Bryant, poet who now has a high school named after him, the puffy fluffy white froth growing on his neck nearly matched the growth sprouting upwards from his chest. Or down from his nose. Fuller than Beyoncé’s hairdo, it never caught on a fan because the 18th century had none.

Hemingway, Freud, Dickens, lettered gents, were famously shaggy. OK. But Alec Baldwin? Brown beard, gray head?

Maybe it’s today’s trend. Loose harem pants. Crotches swinging in the breeze. Sloppy. The handsomer you are, the more unkempt. Kurt Russell, Bradley Cooper, Paul Rudd. Forget bespoke. Shove Italian handmade suits. The dressing’s early Bangladesh.

The lone decent thing about Unweenie Weiner? At least he didn’t grow a beard. Too busy growing other things.