It was a happy beard.
It loved good food—Madras Masala—and beer.
Thankfully, before it died, it learned the pleasures of tamales and tacos. And experienced the golden rays of the actual sun (Senor Macho) upon it, after knowing only the timidity of its weak-ass brother (Carlos) up north.
I'd like to say it died a gentle death, but that would not be true. It died screaming, clawing for life. Accusing me, as it circled the drain.
It knew that its life was little, and would be extinguished, and that only darkness was immense, and everlasting. And it knew it would die with defiance on its lips, and that the cry of its denial would ring with the last pulsing of its heart into the maw of all-engulfing night.
(Thomas Wolfe wrote that, presumeably about his own doomed beard)
In lieu of flowers, please send donations to The Beard Foundation.
Now, please enjoy this selection from Mozart's Requiem: