My guy arrived home with a beard.
Flick to the DISCOVERY Channel tonight, onto one of those shows about men clinging to life and warmth in the tundra, icicles dripping from their facial hair, and that is now my guy.
I always was convinced I would never be a “bearded man” woman. Nests of curly hair have never appeared too appealing to smother in kisses. “I am caveman, hear me roar, now I thud you with my club” are what you almost expect to come out of the mouth of a man with his own garden of chin hair. Let alone images overbounding of Mr Twit getting every tit bit of any meal stuck in amongst his proud facial follicle growth.
Thanks but are you going to shampoo that thing before you attempt a lunge?
Let alone a beard begging the question, “But why? Why a beard?”
Perhaps love really is blind. Perhaps I have always had some suppressed fetish for the Camel Man after he spent too many rural days of cigarette puffing up on that rocky outcrop. Maybe even Edmund Hillary not only mounted Everest but also my childhood fantasies.
But whatever madness has gotten into me, I actually kinda like the beard.
It actually feels nice and soft, even when smooching. He looks different, not better or worse, just different, and I have to grin at this. And chuckle even more at how especially proud he is of how this crop of hair shows off his Manliness. He survived the tundra & frozen living and this furry badge proves it!
Hell, it even seems to silently tell mates, colleagues, and his “woman” (as he has come back calling me…hmmm… good luck to him with that!) that daily he was made to fight off polar bears, so to fish breakfast out of the arctic water with his bare hands, before he rustled a fire out of ice and rabbits’ paws, and then hike kilometres through waist-high snow and blizzards…he survived the elements!
And so, Listen here woman! He deserves this here beard!
So, I’m allowing him to keep it. For now.