Alright. I’m going to come right out and say it. I HATE FACIAL HAIR. There is almost no circumstance in which I am OK with it. There are always exceptions, however. One was my super-hot boyfriend when I was in 10th grade. He was a senior (insert me swooning) and he was actually capable of growing facial hair. And I don’t mean those 9 straggly hairs that most high school guys call facial hair, I mean a full-on beard. He very rarely let it grow for more than a few days (thanks to his mom, who would walk into the room, look at him with one eyebrow cocked and say, in the most sardonic voice imaginable, “are you just going to let that thing grow?” God bless you Mrs. S.J.), but he almost always had this expanded shadow of facial hair, and I loved it. I loved it so much, that when he took me to his senior prom, I pleaded with him to make sure that he let it grow for at least 2 1/2 days, so that when I walked in, everyone would admire A) my killer salmon-pink dress with beaded bodice- my god, I had such poor taste- and B) my date and his rockin’ facial hair (you see, I had to refer to him as my “date” at this point and not my “boyfriend” because he had broken up with me 3 weeks before, but he still took me to the prom because I think he felt sorry for me. Whatever. Now he’s divorced, so that’s what he gets for breaking up with me- let this be a lession to you all. But damnit, I looked good in that dress!).
The other exception is this:
Circa 1939 Clark Gable.
Otherwise, I think most guys look ridiculous. Do you hear me Ambrose Burnside?
I bring this up, because Pete informed me yesterday that he has a beard which he has been cultivating for these past 3 weeks. While I am partially intrigued to see said beard, because he might be able to pull it off, a much larger part of me is cowering in fear at the prospect. For one thing, i’m sure it will be substantial. He’s one of those people who wakes up in the morning with a thousand tiny daggers growing out of his face. Daggers whose only desire in life is to attack and demolish my delicate, fragile, roses-and-cream (read: zombie-pale) skin.
The other reason I am slightly worried about this is because what I have seen of his facial hair up to this point does not bode well. Granted, I have only seen it in two states. One was a full goatee, which I saw in person in December. It wasn’t terrible, and I could stand it, but I didn’t like it. The other was something that came close to completely destroying our relationship: a moustache. My god, the humanity. It was lucky that I only saw this through pictures, and not in person, because I don’t think my psyche could have withstood a blow like that. To say it was terrible is an understatement. It was the Hitler of moustaches. It made my darling, handsome boyfriend look like a 45 year-old child molester from a backass town in Mississippi. It still haunts my dreams.
So I’m nervous. And here’s the rub: I can’t say anything about it! I feel bad about asking him to shave it since I’m only going to be there for a few days. And- AND-, he plays the cold-weather card. “It’s too cold not to have facial hair. It keeps me warm.” Now how can I argue with that? I who am terrified of the cold weather, and honestly, who sorta wishes she could grow one for the weekend so she doesn’t lose the use of her lips. Also, he stays clean shaven almost all the rest of the year, and the winter is the only time he actually allows himself to grow anything. So part of me feels like I just need to suck it up and get the hell over myself. The other part of me says I’d rather not get exfoliated by a brillo pad for 4 days in a row.