The proprietor, a woman with eyes like sharpened flint, pulled a wooden box from beneath a counter. Inside lay . It was a masterwork of hand-knotted yak hair and human silk, treated with a resin that made it waterproof, fire-retardant, and inexplicably smelling of old cedarwood.

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 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.

"It’s $400," she whispered. "And remember: the spirit is in the adhesive."