I love beards. I have a beard. I have a beard that I wish that I loved - but I do not. If there were such a thing as beard buffet and my beard had the good fortune of being served, I would walk past it, picking one more plump and succulent.
My beard is similar to the beard worn by actor Keanu Reeves, who's greatest acting achievement came during the filming of Point Break, and who has been managing a slow decline since that point. Mr. Reeves beard is so wimping and patchy I question its beardyness. Perhaps he dropped his keys under his car, and while reaching for them, rubbed his face lightly against the outer surface of his tire. Perhaps, during the course of a charcoal sketch, he inadvertently brushed away a fallen eyelash.
I have beard envy.
When a man with a thick full beard is in my presence I marvel at it. When I stumble across well cared for face candy I'm griped with unhealthy urge to run and buy some a volumizing product and apply it liberally and hope for the best.
I want a beard that glistens in the sunlight.
I want a beard that is think and rich and luscious and severe.
I want mean spirited pirates to beckon me back from the plank because of my beard.
I want my beard to appear as if its been soaked in motor oil - golden and viscous.
I want my beard to feel like I'm pouring ice cold chocolate milk onto it - all the time.
I want my beard, if removed from my face, to have actual monetary value.
I want my beard to have a following, that people who don't know or like me, will like it.
I want my beard to be able to punch me in the face.
These are the things I want from my beard.
