Fritz moved over the weekend, so she has no time for the likes of us. For now. Fantz subbed for “I’m Not There” today. Fritz will return next week.
It all started in September as the Playoff Beard, Husband showing his support for the Detroit Tigers. He kept his face hairs sprouting until Detroit choked mid-month as AL champs against the Red Sox.
Then, as Halloween approached, the beard stuck around in hopes of sculpting it into a creative costume.
The costume was merely a banana, but that’s OK. A beard looks good on Husband, so I didn’t complain. His Navy years groomed him into a typically clean-shaven baby face, so yours truly welcomed the motorboatin’ stubble. (The man is like A-Rod’s Chia Pet. He can grow ultra-thick facial hair in the matter of an afternoon. He puts Italian women to shame.)
But then the beard grew a mustache of its own.
Husband would wax the upper lip’s hat out and curl it up. He bought fun tools, buzzy things and products to sculpt and shine the dude on his face. The mustache consumed once-emphatic hand gestures to though-provoking twisting and twirling.
Then he got drunk and shaved the beard.
I tried not to laugh, but he was, so I uncaged my, “What the balls did you do that for?” He had this gigantic, fuzzy handlebar stuck under his nose, among a naked chin and cheeks.
I’ve never loved mustaches. It’s just, they remind me of cops, cowboys, Ron Jeremeys, dudes who drive windowless conversion vans and Tom Selleck. (And any other Village People I missed.)
Alas, after about a month, the damn ‘stache is finally growing on me. (Insert clever joke here.)
Plus it’s fun to watch him groom it. When he gets out of the shower and brushes it flat, it hangs well below his lips. He has an art of curling the guy so the piece doesn’t become a soup strainer.
He claims the beard is coming back, that he just wanted sculpt the dashing ‘stache to its potential, then mingle a leveled beard back into the mix.
I get it.
No. I don’t. Because I shave things off, I don’t sculpt them.
But it’s Husband’s face, so I don’t care what he does. Plus, he gets stopped by randoms asking for grooming tips, has his picture taken and garners constant compliments. And as a broad of borderline conceit and vanity, compliments are a tough elixir to haphazardly cut.
So that I get.
Plus, what kind of broad doesn’t like mustache rides?
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