I love beards. It is a deep and fiery passion, over which I have little control. If I was a chap I’d grow one of my own but sadly I cannot. At least not yet – give me a decade or two… Until that time, I am forced to only adore the beards of others.
I have been a Pogonophile for many years. I believe this stems from my childhood love of moustaches and in particular that on the lip of the glorious Mr Boyd.
Mr Boyd was deputy-headmaster at my primary school and a more caring, insightful and dashing gentleman you could not hope to meet. A tall, elegant chap with thick, dark hair and twinkling brown eyes, he had the most stupendous moustache ever to grace the face of mortal man (always excepting Sir Tom Selleck, of course). My childish adoration of this paragon and his wonderful tash has, I believe, blossomed into my full grown, nasty beard-love.
I don’t think I’ll go into too much detail about what the sight (and sensation) of a beard or tash does to me… but even now, I am sometimes surprised by my reactions to unexpected whisker sightings. I am privileged to work among many attractive, intelligent and accomplished men who, in the normal course of things, I would have no dark feelings for. However, should one of these fellows suddenly appear sporting any sort of fuzzy facial growth, I go all a-quiver. I have done everything in my power to advance the spread of beardiness: I have encouraged and cajoled many men into growing their own face-shrubs; I have praised new growth and expressed regret (and fallen out of love) over untimely shavings.