She rubs your face, stubbled with a week of unhindered growth. "Grow Beard for, mama," she says as her thin Filipino digits trace nonsensical lines around your rosy cheeks. "Grow Beard for, mama. Be my sexy hair bear.

You say you'll think about it, that it's been years since your face wore Beard; that you don't know if it will look nice.

She leaves you to think; you don't, instead hack away at your latest role playing game obsession. She returns, looking tired, pale skin peeling from her face from acne treatment, still beautiful. "Where's Beard?" she asks.

You smile saying, "these things take time, baby, oh they take time."

She stomps her size three feet, they don't make noise nor vibrate the floor. "I want Beard, now," she says. "I can't wait. I need me a Bear quickly."

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