Every day, for as long as I’ve known him, my husband has looked like this (minus the big purple pimp hat, of course–that was from his bachelor party):
Occasionally, in winter, he looks like this:
What I mean to highlight here is the beard. I even call him my “beard guy” sometimes. I like the beard, I’ve always liked beards ever since my very first crush, which was… Kenny Rogers. (waits for your snickering to subside)
Yesterday, the beard was shaved. I wish I would have been there. He told me that he saw how he looks with just the moustache, and it was pretty hilarious. Like a seventies cop, he said. I asked, “Was it a seventies cop or a seventies porno-cop?” Because there is a difference. He agreed that it was, indeed, porno-cop. But I digress.
I haven’t kissed a beardless man in years. It’s a strange experience when you’re used to the facial hair. He also looks completely different. Even more like his dad, except for the chin, which he prefers to keep in hiding. So when we were making out yesterday, it was almost like kissing an entirely different person. Except he’s still the man that I love. The man of my dreams.
The reason for the shaving was a job fair at my school. Unfortunately, it was all in vain because it turned out to be a student-only affair, and that wasn’t really very clear from the stuff I saw about it, so I felt shitty, and he felt shitty, and his face was getting an unfamiliar draft around his chin.
I also can’t post a picture of the beardless James because I promised him I wouldn’t take any. He’s sensitive about his looks. And I’m a woman of my word. So, sorry for teasing you. I’m bad like that.