POGOPHOBIA

 Given  ostensibly, that"...bearded men do not harbor more virulent bacteria in their beards than clean-shaven men"(a defensive study, of course, which I put very little faith in)I still am deeply grossed out by thick facial hair; it has always looked unsanitary to me, and off-putting.

A man who has grown, for all rights and purposes, an animal pelt on his face, does not broadcast availability for intimacy.  Instead he seems to be telling the world that he's ready for sweaty snowshoeing,trapping(subjecting small animals to horrific deaths for very small profits), taxidermy, and avoiding any damned floozy nonsense, like heating the cabin temperature above forty degrees.

I get the feeling that any unfortunate girl drawn close to that wolverine pelt might accidentally wake it up and get growled at, scratched, even bitten long before the first scratchy kiss that would give her the weeping sores of a skin infection (Google facial microbial flora in beards if you want nightmares).

My boyfriend grows the occasional quarter-incher, but then shaves it all off regularly.  I enjoy this.  It's the girl's equivalent of having a partner who changes her hair a lot so you always feel like you're with a new girl.   Jim has a lot of looks and I never know which one is next; as long as it's HIM I'm always pleased.  He never lets his beard grow too long, which is also pleasing, nor a mustache (UGH!  GODDESS save us from lip ferrets!  If you can shave it off and make a pet out of it, it is officially an ABOMINATION and should have gone down the drain long ago.)

A quick horrible story behind my pogophobia as well:

Years ago I went into a bagel shop to get a lox sandwich.  Once I got it into the truck and popped the clamshell cover I saw the tiny nest of black hair sitting on top, like a pubic garnish.  It almost looked like a prank.

I took it back into the restaurant and asked to see the manager, just like the White Chick that I totally fucking AM.

The manager turned pale green and called his chef out to question him.  The chef had a deep grizzly pelt jutting from his chin and strutted from the kitchen, aggressively digging into the chin pelt with all five digits; clearly he had a bear of an itch; possibly a massive, juicy zit or a termite queen nesting in there.  I became nauseated and instantly knew I couldn't stay and wait even for my money back.  I was too grossed out.

I left while they were still talking.

To this day if I go into a restaurant or a bar and the chef has a beard, I find a reason to leave.  I don't think people with beards should prepare food; it's disgusting to me.  

Some women don't mind beards, and I don't try to change their minds.  Far be it from me to prevent the scarring and the risk of bacterial skin infection.  Maybe true love is worth it.  Maybe the weasle pelt will stay asleep.