A beard is sexy. Sometimes. I hesitate to write this for several reasons. 

1) It outs me as an unimaginative, conformist hipster and hipster lover. 

2) Proves I lived in Portland too long.

3) Not all beards look good on all dudes. Beards should not be an excuse to forego grooming or to stop working with/improving what nature gave you. Or a lazy way to look cool. (See #1 and #2.)

4) Shows my age. But in the spirit of what this blog aims (and possibly fails) to do, I won’t relegate my attitudes and behaviors to simply “getting old.” Let me complicate. 

My dad has a mustache. Apparently, he’s had one ever since he could grow one. Photos of him as a baby are the only evidence I have that he has an upper lip. Several years ago, when mustaches became painfully hip, I dated a mustachioed guy  - it resembled a black pocket comb (though thankfully, wasn’t a handlebar or a waxed villain mutation.) Every time I got close to his face, it reminded me of my dad. I couldn’t go there. 

A beard, on the other hand, was something I didn’t have much contact with growing up. In Hawaii, it’s like wearing a ski mask in a furnace. Whenever I thought of a full beard, I imagined movies with dudes from small towns in the 1820s, or dudes from small towns that haven’t seen an influx of people since the 1820s.

While facial hair didn’t previously register on my hotness radar because of social norms, these days, I have little control over noticing such things thanks to my physiological wiring. Over the last 10 years, I’ve become more attracted to scruff. You can say it’s the ruggedness and the I don’t give a shit attitude that I’m attracted to, (which is true), but it’s no secret that maintaining a 10 o’clock shadow takes various razor settings, time and aptitude.

Yesterday, my boyfriend, who’s 33, walked through the door with a nearly a full beard, the result of letting such a shadow lurk for several days. When I laid my eyes on his face, I was immediately aroused. He looked like a Man. 

Now, when I say Man, I don’t mean it in a hyper-loaded “let me dive into a dissertation about what it takes to be a man” kind of way, or some stereotypical misogynist fantasy sort, or even in a jaded “I’m done with boys, give me a man” way either. (Though all of these could be argued.) But now at 32, I am simply drawn to the physicality of a man. A mature adult man. Baby faces don’t turn me on anymore.