I have a thing for men with beards. Not a goatee or anything sparse and disgusting. I'm talking full-on Jesus beards. (But not in a blasphemous, I find Jesus attractive way. Obviously.) I like shaggy hair and a thick beard just shy of looking homeless. I'm not quite sure how this feeling developed, but I'm fairly certain that it has something to do with this recurring dream where I quit my job and live on a sprawling farm that is magically maintained by someone other than myself. This farm has lush greenery, Jersey cows, wood-fired pizza ovens, and my bearded lover--a guitar playing potter who feeds me artisan sheep's milk cheese and rubs my feet with emu oil. Mmmmm...
So I choose to celebrate beautifully bearded men on Fridays. I raise my glass to them. "Long live beards, cheese, and my deranged fantasies always involving beards and cheese. Salud."
Ray LaMontagne. Oh sweet bearded Ray. What's that you say? No stop
, you are the best thing. Do I want another bite of cheese? A foot massage? Mr. LaMontangne, you are trouble, oh trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...
It may be helpful to my marriage to explain that my husband is definitely capable of growing a thick and luscious beard and I love it when he does. He is more than welcome to live on the farm with us (me and Ray) if he keeps his beard and gives me three detailed compliments per day.
