Monday, August 6, 2007

Moustache Monday

Ok, I'll stop it after today's Blog Title. I know, I know. But it just had to be done!

About 10 days ago, Eric asked me what I thought about mustaches? "On you or on me?" I replied. It seems that he had decided to grow one, and actually had about a day-and-a-half's worth on his upper lip. My main concern was what kind of mustache he was planning on growing. I figure if he's going to do it, he should go for a handlebar mustache with waxed tips. "I think not." he replied to my suggestion.

A couple of days later, he complained that he had woken up early and was still half asleep, and had shaved the mustache off by mistake. But as of this evening, he had re-started the project and his effort was becoming apparent.

I'm not sure what it is about men that they have to periodically grow hair on their faces. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against it at all. Eric admits to feeling the need to grow a mustache about every two to three years. Most of the men I know have succumbed to the same urge. And eventually realize that hair on the face is a lot of work to keep clean. Certainly not worth all that trouble for a crumb collector.

I can grow a mustache if I want to, too. Most women who are of menopausal age can. Now, I haven't gotten to that state yet (although I wish I had), but having taken steroids fairly continuously for the past 20 years, I can lay claim to small amounts of hair in all sorts of unlikely places. I am fastidious about it, and pluck it with a tweezer at the first signs of growth. I also shave my legs (and pits) pretty regularly. It's socially acceptable for men to go hairy, but the same claim cannot be made by women.

Unless you are "Earth Woman," of course. They are the lucky ones; self-assured and dedicated to their chosen lifestyle. Hairy beyond redemption, proud of their refusal to give in to social norms. They don't need to carry razors on camping trips, and in the winter, their legs are not as cold as the rest of ours. No, hairy legs do not work out well in nylons or tights, but it's the rare earth women in anything other than pants or, in the summertime, shorts, under any circumstances.

I don't think I can go hairy, as much as I would like to. There's just something inside of me that clings to urban life. I like to wear the occasional skirt. I am not French. And I have a vivid recollection of a gal I knew when I was in high school. She would sit on her horse and braid the hair in her armpits. Ew.

I am waiting to see where Eric's growth project goes. His daughter Gabby - age 9 - hates the sprouts and tells him that she will not give him a kiss until he's shaved. He's responded that she will not go to sleep-away horse camp until she kisses him. It's a stand-off right now and I can hardly wait to see who gives in first.

In the meantime, I'm looking forward to seeing what it's like to kiss a man with a growth on his face. I'm still hoping for the handlebar mustache. If Eric waxes the tips with mint flavored wax, it can double as dental floss.

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