Dear Evangeline
Although you don't know me, I adore you. Although we've never met, it feels like we've known each other forever. I am a subscriber of Beards Monthly, and when I'm through reading all the fascinating and well written articles about facial hair and facial hair products that you edit with such unmatched skill, I flip back to the page where your sweet name is written; Evangeline, Editor. Editor of Beards Monthly. You are the most important person in my eyes; the most important person in the world because without you to guide the words gently into place the magazine would be a bland and almost irritating publication. I have read every "Letters to the Editor" section of every edition since I first laid my hands on a copy, when I was just a naive boy with a goatee. I read your responses to those letters and I grovel in the presence of your impressive knowledge. Since the first time I read your magazine I have dreampt of holding you in my arms, with nothing between us but a thick and full, majestic beard. You see, my sweet Evangeline, I have fallen in love with you. I know you have very precise taste when it comes to men, so I must inform you before we go any further that I have the greatest facial hair anyone on this world, or any other, has ever been graced with. It is my love poem written solely for you; it is the growing garden of infinite adoration that sprouts from my face to sprinkle a sweet perfume in your direction.
Oh, how your gemstone eyes would sparkle with love if they ever were turned in my direction. The gigantic web of hair that dangles regally from my chin is a rich mahogany, the moustache that sprouts from below my nose hangs well past my knees and bounces up and down when I walk. In some places the hair is tangled in knots: glorious tributes to the animal nature in all of us that are too thick to run even my little pinky-finger through. In other places the hair is sleek and silky, proudly displaying my cultured heritage. Thick barbed hairs sprout around my mouth and curl down over my chin and up over my cheeks, emphasizing my perfect bone structure. It is a great mass that quivers and quakes when I laugh heartily, or even breathe. When the wind blows through it a soft whistling sound is produced, causing passing dogs to tremble and yelp.
In the past I've tried many different ways of wearing my facial hair. I've seperated it down the middle, creating two identical beards; each one just as glorious as the other. In the early 90s I christened my beard "William T. Riker," who as we all know was an important figure in bringing about sci-fi/beard relations (before him, you would only see a beard at a Star Trek convention if it was on a Klingon). After I found out that his natural beard color was gray and he used dye to get that lively, brown hue, I combed my beard and moustache to one side in protest, and teased it, causing it to appear as if a mighty gust of wind was constantly pulling it to the right side of my body while I stood ever still, like a mountain being struck by the hurricane of adversity. Those were the days. Back then respect for having a beard was easy to come by, but no more.
Nowadays, when I walk through crowds and try to display the pride I have, the reaction I get isn't very pleasant. Children cry and run to their parents, gripping onto their legs, screaming. Tourists snap pictures of me while I'm trying to commute. Other men with barren faces turn away in shame, weeping softly to themselves (imagine the difficulty I have making friends). Women, overwhelmed by the sight of it, advance quickly and claw at my beard like crows. When more than one woman does this it gets nasty fast, and usually results in bloodshed. In one instance where the police were involved, they had to call backup, which turned out to include a few female officers. It wasn't long before they too were driven mad with lust. I wish there was a way of convincing them that my heart already belongs to you!
At night when I lay and sleep alone in bed dreaming of you, I begin to believe it -- I believe you are next to me. So I reach over to where you would be and find nothing but this damned beard. Although it is warm and soft as I'd imagine you to be, sweet Evangeline, it only moves when I do, breathes when I do. I begin to fear that it isn't your personality living underneath its crusted brown surface (as I had imagined it would if I planted seeds of my love for you deep within); but instead some horrible new creature. I begin to fear it has a life of its own in the darkness of night! I wake up in a cold sweat and stare at it suspiciously, wondering what it is I've grown on my once young face. Sometimes I think I'll wake up with half of my head and personal belongings missing, eaten and clawed away by the monster that moves and breathes when I do. I fear it will steal away the part of my heart that belongs to you. I fear it's billions of follicles will tunnel up into my brain and take control of my body! Is it now me that wears the beard, or the beard that wears me? This question consumes my mind constantly, as my bristly nest of hair has consumed the minds of others.
In 1998, I was given an award for having the most disruptingly glorious facial hair in show at the 50th annual Berlin Bart Wettkampf. This is surely a competition you have heard about, maybe even witnessed. The world's finest hair growers compete for the judges approvel in 7 different categories: facial hair length, facial hair texture, facial hair groomsmanship, facial hair content, facial hair durability, facial hair talent, and facial hair bravery. For the talent portion of the contest I displayed how, by infusing my beard with the scent of smoked hickory, I could attract a wide assortment of feral animals. The judges were thoroughly impressed by my knowledge and integrity.
I have been given quite a few other awards that you might have heard about; such as the notorious Heibleman Moustache Ribbon of Dignity, which I quite regularly pin into my tangled mass: a proud display. In fact, I do that with a large number of the ribbons and pins and medals that I've collected over the years in deft celebration of my manliness. Gold, fancy ribbons and medals enscribed with words such as: "MOST UNIVERSALLY PROMINANT BEARD", and "BEST BEARD OF '02", blatantly displaying the respect I have received for my unrivaled showmanship. Red circle-topped ribbons that say "1st PLACE" hang like ornaments on a Christmas tree. I also place reflector lights in my beard, for both my own personal safety and aesthetics (they make the sunshine radiate off of the medals more brilliantly). During the holiday season I adorn it with polished gemstones engraved with the symbols of all the religious denominations, including one engraving of L. Ron Hubbard. I try to be fair, you see, and I try to be nondiscriminatory.
I know it must be a little hard to believe that a beard such as mine could possibly exist, but I assure you it does. Oh, sweet Evangeline, if only you could see and feel it for yourself; if only you could breathe in it's musky odor and run your fingers through the many strands. If only; then you would see the love that grows from my face for the world to see. Then you couldn't help but love me back, and we would take combs to my beard; combing out the love and eating it together like apes. A love like mine for you could feed us forever, we would need nothing but our love and my facial hair - a combination that social scientists have claimed keeps relationships alive longer than any other. Please, sweet Evangeline, write me back. Write me a letter and tell me if there is room in your life for me. I desperately need to know.
Yours Truly,
Kyle Fierstien
Although you don't know me, I adore you. Although we've never met, it feels like we've known each other forever. I am a subscriber of Beards Monthly, and when I'm through reading all the fascinating and well written articles about facial hair and facial hair products that you edit with such unmatched skill, I flip back to the page where your sweet name is written; Evangeline, Editor. Editor of Beards Monthly. You are the most important person in my eyes; the most important person in the world because without you to guide the words gently into place the magazine would be a bland and almost irritating publication. I have read every "Letters to the Editor" section of every edition since I first laid my hands on a copy, when I was just a naive boy with a goatee. I read your responses to those letters and I grovel in the presence of your impressive knowledge. Since the first time I read your magazine I have dreampt of holding you in my arms, with nothing between us but a thick and full, majestic beard. You see, my sweet Evangeline, I have fallen in love with you. I know you have very precise taste when it comes to men, so I must inform you before we go any further that I have the greatest facial hair anyone on this world, or any other, has ever been graced with. It is my love poem written solely for you; it is the growing garden of infinite adoration that sprouts from my face to sprinkle a sweet perfume in your direction.
Oh, how your gemstone eyes would sparkle with love if they ever were turned in my direction. The gigantic web of hair that dangles regally from my chin is a rich mahogany, the moustache that sprouts from below my nose hangs well past my knees and bounces up and down when I walk. In some places the hair is tangled in knots: glorious tributes to the animal nature in all of us that are too thick to run even my little pinky-finger through. In other places the hair is sleek and silky, proudly displaying my cultured heritage. Thick barbed hairs sprout around my mouth and curl down over my chin and up over my cheeks, emphasizing my perfect bone structure. It is a great mass that quivers and quakes when I laugh heartily, or even breathe. When the wind blows through it a soft whistling sound is produced, causing passing dogs to tremble and yelp.
In the past I've tried many different ways of wearing my facial hair. I've seperated it down the middle, creating two identical beards; each one just as glorious as the other. In the early 90s I christened my beard "William T. Riker," who as we all know was an important figure in bringing about sci-fi/beard relations (before him, you would only see a beard at a Star Trek convention if it was on a Klingon). After I found out that his natural beard color was gray and he used dye to get that lively, brown hue, I combed my beard and moustache to one side in protest, and teased it, causing it to appear as if a mighty gust of wind was constantly pulling it to the right side of my body while I stood ever still, like a mountain being struck by the hurricane of adversity. Those were the days. Back then respect for having a beard was easy to come by, but no more.
Nowadays, when I walk through crowds and try to display the pride I have, the reaction I get isn't very pleasant. Children cry and run to their parents, gripping onto their legs, screaming. Tourists snap pictures of me while I'm trying to commute. Other men with barren faces turn away in shame, weeping softly to themselves (imagine the difficulty I have making friends). Women, overwhelmed by the sight of it, advance quickly and claw at my beard like crows. When more than one woman does this it gets nasty fast, and usually results in bloodshed. In one instance where the police were involved, they had to call backup, which turned out to include a few female officers. It wasn't long before they too were driven mad with lust. I wish there was a way of convincing them that my heart already belongs to you!
At night when I lay and sleep alone in bed dreaming of you, I begin to believe it -- I believe you are next to me. So I reach over to where you would be and find nothing but this damned beard. Although it is warm and soft as I'd imagine you to be, sweet Evangeline, it only moves when I do, breathes when I do. I begin to fear that it isn't your personality living underneath its crusted brown surface (as I had imagined it would if I planted seeds of my love for you deep within); but instead some horrible new creature. I begin to fear it has a life of its own in the darkness of night! I wake up in a cold sweat and stare at it suspiciously, wondering what it is I've grown on my once young face. Sometimes I think I'll wake up with half of my head and personal belongings missing, eaten and clawed away by the monster that moves and breathes when I do. I fear it will steal away the part of my heart that belongs to you. I fear it's billions of follicles will tunnel up into my brain and take control of my body! Is it now me that wears the beard, or the beard that wears me? This question consumes my mind constantly, as my bristly nest of hair has consumed the minds of others.
In 1998, I was given an award for having the most disruptingly glorious facial hair in show at the 50th annual Berlin Bart Wettkampf. This is surely a competition you have heard about, maybe even witnessed. The world's finest hair growers compete for the judges approvel in 7 different categories: facial hair length, facial hair texture, facial hair groomsmanship, facial hair content, facial hair durability, facial hair talent, and facial hair bravery. For the talent portion of the contest I displayed how, by infusing my beard with the scent of smoked hickory, I could attract a wide assortment of feral animals. The judges were thoroughly impressed by my knowledge and integrity.
I have been given quite a few other awards that you might have heard about; such as the notorious Heibleman Moustache Ribbon of Dignity, which I quite regularly pin into my tangled mass: a proud display. In fact, I do that with a large number of the ribbons and pins and medals that I've collected over the years in deft celebration of my manliness. Gold, fancy ribbons and medals enscribed with words such as: "MOST UNIVERSALLY PROMINANT BEARD", and "BEST BEARD OF '02", blatantly displaying the respect I have received for my unrivaled showmanship. Red circle-topped ribbons that say "1st PLACE" hang like ornaments on a Christmas tree. I also place reflector lights in my beard, for both my own personal safety and aesthetics (they make the sunshine radiate off of the medals more brilliantly). During the holiday season I adorn it with polished gemstones engraved with the symbols of all the religious denominations, including one engraving of L. Ron Hubbard. I try to be fair, you see, and I try to be nondiscriminatory.
I know it must be a little hard to believe that a beard such as mine could possibly exist, but I assure you it does. Oh, sweet Evangeline, if only you could see and feel it for yourself; if only you could breathe in it's musky odor and run your fingers through the many strands. If only; then you would see the love that grows from my face for the world to see. Then you couldn't help but love me back, and we would take combs to my beard; combing out the love and eating it together like apes. A love like mine for you could feed us forever, we would need nothing but our love and my facial hair - a combination that social scientists have claimed keeps relationships alive longer than any other. Please, sweet Evangeline, write me back. Write me a letter and tell me if there is room in your life for me. I desperately need to know.
Yours Truly,
Kyle Fierstien