Hy husband and "Moe", the school-yard yard bully from Calvin and Hobbes, have this in common: overactive pituitary glands. Their mutant master glands insisted that they would both start shaving as soon as they went onto solid foods.
Because I only met my husband when we were in our twenties, I was not privy to any childhood trauma he suffered as a result of his premature beard. Moreover, any trauma on the time line of his folicular development I feel has been felt purely by me. Guys with beards seem to be respected by other guys. Unless you're Zach Galifianakis.
Before I go any further, I would like to point out that I do not oppose the beard. I harbour no resentment towards it. When I first met Louw it was his incredible hair that I was drawn to. He had thick ropey dreadlocks and a trucker moustache. In a matter of days I was putty in his hands. What I did not know back then was that this moustache would roam around his face, morphing its form as the fancy took him.
In the 6 years we have been together, he has sported lamb-chop sideburns that Elvis himself would have whistled at; the aforementioned trucker 'tache; an ill-conceived stalactite that grew straight from his chinny-chin-chin and was repeatedly bleached and dyed green; a fu-manchu; a full beard that saw nary a razor nor pair of scissors for nigh on a year and finally a neatly groomed but equally impressive full-facial shrub of which the crowning glory was a gleaming moustache with 2 inch curls on either end.
My issue with facial hair can be summed up by Peter Parker's uncle's cautionary words: "With great power comes great responsibility"
I have lost count of the number of times I have seen other men coming up to my hub and saying "DUDE, doooooooooood, that is the most incredible/phenomenal/impressive/amazing beard/moustache/set of whiskers I have ever seen. Can I touch it?" In these exchanges, my human grows calm, maintains eye contact and graciously accepts the compliments - in much the same way as a cat, sunning itself on a window seat, will accept a brief and respectful belly rub.
Now that the "great power" element of my husband's facial coif has been established, we must discuss the need for "great responsibility". This issue raises itself in times of feasting, and kissing. Sometimes the two do not exclude each other. He says one of the reasons he married me was for my high absorbency, but I feel he sells himself short here. His beard, when dunked into a litre jug of beer, can leave the glass half-full (or half-empty if you're a dour douche) when raised up again. What I object to is when once raised from the jug of beer, the beard leans in for a kiss. The pressure applied in this kiss leads, every time, to me sporting a beery beard smeer down my front. As I am sure you can imagine, in all scenarios and with all food types, while this is a real boon for the dabber it is not ideal for the dab-ee.
Of late, I have taken to packing a light lunch and a headlamp when searching through the undergrowth of my beloved's face, for the mouth I long to kiss. I fear that the local fauna and flora that thrive there may not always welcome alien lips, so when I have located his elusive smoochers, I plant a quick one, and retreat as fast as I can so as to avoid predatory or defensive attacks.
I cannot explain how good it feels to get this off my chest. You will only truly empathise with me once I upload photographic proof* on my husband's mandibular anomalie. Until then, rejoice as I do when he disappears into the back garden with the electric shaver, muttering threats about "takin' these moustaches out back to shoot 'em".
*possibly because of interference brought about by the wirey nature of his bristles, I am having a heck of a time uploading this enlightening proof.
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