EL CHUPACABRA AND A LUSTROUS BEARD

I'm cheating on The Boyfriend.

I KNOW! It's wrong. It's sick. It's a sin.

I had to tell someone, to let it out, to confess.

So far, it's only emotionally. I don't know if that's better, or worse. I don't think it will ever progress further than this but I need absolution.

It's The Beard. The Beard is a softly-spoken American surfer. He jokes about chupacabra and philosophises about crinkle cut potato chips. But it's not The Beard I'm cheating with, it's his beard. The beard that gives The Beard his moniker.

It's a beautiful beard, grown from convenience, maintained by love. This thick, unpretentious patch of face-hair has a character of its own. It's clean, it's quiet, it's flexible, it's very very soft.

It's located, in the tradition of the majority of beards I've met, at the lower-half of The Beard's face. Around the mouth, under the ears and nose. It extends below his chin, the excess varying somewhat due to humidity. Thick, shiny, dark-brown curls. Turkish, fortune-telling curls. The Beard, being more than 6ft when vertical, generally keeps his beard up there near his face, which means that the enticing curls separate me from him when we speak. This makes it almost impossible for me to avoid the beard if I'm speaking to The Beard.

You see my dilemma.

And I adore this beard. My friend, The Beard is also superb, in that way that people sometimes are. And I would love to pass The Beard around my single friends. He would be appreciated, I know this.

But I fear.

I fear some overzealous girl will persuade The Beard to shave the beard. And what will happen after that?

A shaved beard is just a pile of hair.

DON'T TOUCH THE BEARD.