He flew to Nepal. He trekked for six days, the fake beard itching like a thousand ants, yet held firm by the Forge’s industrial-grade spirit gum. Finally, at the Gate of Whispers, a spectral monk materialized. The monk looked at Arthur’s magnificent, flowing silver beard, nodding in deep, silent respect. "Pass, Elder," the ghost chimed.
Arthur was twenty-eight and genetically incapable of growing more than a patchy, sad goatee that looked like a dying shrub. where can you buy a fake beard
As he turned to leave, a sudden, violent sneeze erupted from his lungs. The force of it—combined with the high-altitude sweat—compromised the Forge’s legendary adhesive. The right side of the beard peeled away, flapping in the wind like a dying crow. The monk’s eyes narrowed. The mountain began to tremble. He flew to Nepal
Arthur didn't wait for a refund. He sprinted down the trail, one hand clutching his face, the other holding his map, realizing too late that while he had found eternal dignity, he had left his $400 yak-hair chin behind in the snow. The monk looked at Arthur’s magnificent, flowing silver
Desperate, Arthur bypassed the local costume shops. He didn't want a "Party City" polyester chin-wig; he needed something that could withstand a gale-force wind and the scrutiny of a mountain ghost. He found himself in the back alley of London’s theater district, entering a shop called The Follicle Forge .
Arthur strapped it on. The transformation was instant. He didn't just look older; he looked like a man who had survived a shipwreck and then wrestled the shark that caused it.