My face has been a storm of white dead flakes for years falling like snow onto my desk as I subconsciously stroke my beard as I ponder. A real problem, to be sure. My new boar’s hair beard brush arrived to this scene of follicular devastation with a strength and power I could have never expected. The bristles, like witches brooms, ran through my hairs with a startlingly satisfying vigor. The beard balm I’d added just before seeped into the microscopic grooves left behind like water filling a parched valley that had been punished by the Gods for the indiscretions of its villagers. But it was all a gift, a glorious salve from the underworld that restored the supple landscape of my hidden skin below my ancient beard. I could almost feel the impish spells cast from each hair as they nestled around the root of each individual strand of hair. A devil’s compact. My soul, in exchange for a clean desk.