They really are.

I don’t think I’m alone here when I say that I like beards. Real beards that involve unkept hair and not just the women that Republican politicians marry when they aren’t embarrassing themselves in bathroom stalls or on IM chats with congressional pages.

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. Let’s talk beards! Let’s talk about how walking into Sancho’s Broken Arrow is like Christmas every time and not because I just love learning about Jerry Garcia’s favorite type of pancakes or wrapping myself up in a gigantic tie dye tapestry that reeks of patchouli oil and compost, but because I believe hidden behind every poorly maintained puff of facial hair is a man’s man and an orgasm.

First, I know that nine times out of ten, the bearded man is usually a really disappointing geologist with gentle mannerisms and a love of yoga, but in my mind, in my fantasies– the bearded man is someone that just stumbled out of the mountains where he was chopping wood and murdering Bambi before arriving in the city to address my relationship concerns with dismissive grunts and a side of light verbal abuse before showing.me.the.business.

And, yes, showing.me.the.business mostly has to do with the moustache attached to the beard, but I don’t care. I’m not sixteen and looking for a prom date- so the kind of guy that rocks a moustache (without irony) probably isn’t for me, whereas the beard allows me to at least pretend the gentle geologist is something else. 

Something manly that would never use the term “moustache rides” but understands their significance. I know. I know. Beards itch and occasionally they smell, but that’s a pretty small price to pay for nature’s all natural sex toy, isn’t it?

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