Chuck Norris, eat your heart out.
(Note: If you are reading this Mr. Norris, please don't eat my heart out. I would never question your omnipotent destruction capabilities and humbly bow my head in submission to said abilities. I, just as the entire world, knows that you don't sleep at night. You wait.)
I am rocking a full on beard right now. One of my finest in these 22 years since my birth. Its full, thick, and wonderful to pensively stroke. I can't be a faux-intellectual until I have at least some piece of distinguishing hair. Hemingway had a beard. Freud had a beard (and cute glasses to boot!). Einstein had the crazy just-electrocuted hair. Dammit, I need it too. Luckily, I have a little patch of white hair that I have on my chin that just screams sophistication (when I shaved a few weeks ago, I realized that it is not the hair that is white, but that I actually lack pigment on that part of my skin. There is a white patch of skin when the beard is absent). And besides, it just feels good. I enjoy the formidable forest of man-foliage surrounding my smile. It keeps me safe.
I have a theory that I should always wear a beard in the winter. I feel like it is natural. Our ancestors didn't shave! Pish tosh! They ate with their bare hands raw flesh that was plucked off a fresh bleeding corpse! Ok, maybe I'll leave that part out. And everything else related to neanderthals. Except the beard.
Besides a symbol of sophistication, the beard also helps keep me warm. It shields my baby-bottom skin from the frigid cold, the bone-chilling rain, and unsightly blemishes. Even the snow likes the beard, as it clings lovingly along for the ride.
But on the whole, the beard is man's real best friend. It grows, matures, needs grooming, needs training and attracts ladies better than any drooling mutt can (that's a lie. A cute dog is unbeatable and a great conversation starter).
So yeah. Grow a beard if you can. Feel the magic.