This evening, while watching tv (after going a mile and a half on the treadmill!), George sashayed into the room to let me see his latest version of facial hair. Now, this is not a man who easily grows facial hair. When it grows it is slow and sparse (and really scratchy). But sometime last week he decided to grow a beard.
After a week's worth of growth his poor, tired face had managed a slight scruffy appearance that looked a bit like stubby dirt. Sure as anything, he has a business meeting tomorrow and can't take the new look with him. Poor guy. He's practically worn his face out trying to grow this scruffy stubble and now he has to shave it.
Well, George being George, it can't just be a clean shaving in one fell swoop. The first swath of the razor took away the beard and left him with just a moustache. But a creepy one. The kind that a make-up artist would put on a character called, "creepy guy," or "sex offender." It was the kind that showed skin between the hair and the lip. "Chester the molester" is our fond nickname for men with those 'staches.
We couldn't help but laugh (a lot) at his hideous facial hair and wonder why it is that some moustaches look okay and others make you feel all creepy and like you need to shower. He has an uncle, Uncle M., who is an Italian guy. This guy can grow a moustache. Damn. It's a wonder. And it looks good on him. It's longish and bushy and attractive on him. But George would never, ever in a million years look good in one. (Sorry, buddy, but it's true.)
He laughingly trudged back into the bathroom to get rid of the Freddy Mercury look only to emerge looking like Hitler, of all things. That only lasted long enough for a chuckle or two and now George has his nice, smooth face again. Mmm. Better. Tonight he might even get a kiss goodnight.