I like men with beards. Wait no, I lied. Like is a gross understatement. I am borderline obsessed with beards.
Thick beards. Beards on the verge of stroking a man’s clavicle. Beards in their infancy. Mediocre beards with glimmers of potential. Short beards. Dark beards. Light beards. I’ll accept stubble. I swoon at beards peppered with gray hairs. Love the royale on eccentric artistic men. Then there’s my favorite — the chin curtain accompanied by a moustache.
My fetish does not discriminate. There is no racial or facial structure preference. I am a beard egalitarian and embrace all men with beards. Whether they are Premium Chocolate, Premium Vanilla, Premium Beige or Premium Caramel — these aren’t luxury ice cream flavors, just my crude way of addressing all the beautiful shades of men in the world. You have a beard? I will stare. I may ask to touch it. If I’m sufficiently Hennesseyed up, I will take a picture.
But I won’t ask to take the picture because ironically alcohol inhibits my courage. Fortunately I have wonderful friends who, out of the goodness of their hearts, choose to facilitate the expansion of my beard photo gallery.
“Hey, my home girl has a beard fetish, can she take a picture of your beard?”
You’d be shocked how many men at a party will allow a stranger to take a picture of their beard if she requests it. Twenty to be precise. Yes, that’s right. I now have 20 additional pictures of beautiful bearded men in my “beautiful and bearded” photo album. Since I’m a generous spirit, I’ll tweet the photos to keep any other beard enthusiasts happy.
Every morning I wake up and check the news. The beard news. I log onto thebearded.tumblr.com and see if my favorite beard Twitter account @PostBadBeards has any new images that’ll make me twerk and clap with joy. I jest (maybe). After checking the headlines I give thanks to the Most High for Dihydrotestosterone, the hormone that promotes facial hair growth. Then I go on my run.
I hate running uphill, but I’ve pushed the hatred aside and modified my jogging route so I pass an Orthodox Jewish school. It’s a great place for spotting fathers in all their bearded glory taking their children to school. I run slowly and with sunglasses on, so the children are spared the trauma of spotting a sweaty woman staring intently at their father while biting her lip.
I realized how much I love beards when I dated a man who initially didn’t have one and then grew one as a personal challenge. Suddenly the amount of like I felt for him inflated. Then he cut off the beard and it became apparent that my interest (or lack thereof) correlated with his facial hair growth.
I don’t judge men for being beardless. Wait no, that’s another lie. I live by the maxim that men without facial hair aren’t to be trusted. According to a study in the Journal of Marketing and Communications, men with beards were deemed more credible. This lends much-needed academic credence to my vapid theory.
Beards are my personal proof of a benevolent God who wants to make me happy. Beardless men with beady eyes are proof the devil is busy.
I once dreamt that Common, the greatest bearded man currently walking the earth, declared his love for me armed with a Chanel handbag. I distinctively remember wanting to touch his beard before I grabbed the bag. This is further proof I need help. Soon.
To all the beautiful men with beards, I thank you. Keep them. Groom them. Do not under any circumstances cut them (unless it’s a medical emergency). I appreciate you. May your beard continue to prosper.