Back in my mid-twenties, I sported a fine beard. On my first date with Gail, it kept her riveted. I can't really blame her, as it was an amazing beard.
"Normally I hate guys with beards," she informed me, "But yours is really nice."
I was proud of it. It was reddish-brown and unimpeachably groomed. She then asked, "Can I touch it? My hands are clean."
We had been eating pizza. Her hands were anything but. Still, I couldn't refuse a girl with beard-lust, so I let her dip her hand into my scraggly adornment.
What happened next changed everything.
She yanked on it three times, each time shouting, "Gimmie!"
We knocked into my soda and it smashed onto the table and all over the rest of the pizza. She jumped back, apparently amazed at physics. It was funny, so I laughed. She apologized over and over ("I was trying to be funny!" etc.) and you know something? I liked her enough for a second date. Sadly though, she never responded to my message.
I did, however, send her my beard when I shaved it off.