Oh no! Not again!

“So. Did you forget to, um, shave,” I say to my husband who, showered and dressed, appears ready to go out to dinner.

“No. I didn’t forget.”

My suspicions confirmed, I say nothing. I simply turn my back to him, begin washing dishes. Maybe this time if he doesn’t elicit my usual protests, if I pretend not to care, it will take the fun out of it, and he’ll shave sooner.

Joanna knows nothing of my scheme. “Oh, no, Dad, not again. Don’t you know how we hate it when you try to grow a beard?” I shoot her a look. “Don’t start.”

It doesn’t matter. He’s not paying any attention. As usual. Later that night I cut his hair. I compliment his beautiful hair, how the exercising is making him so strong. I don’t say a word about the pricklies.

The next day is Sunday. I’ve been good. I’ve not said a word. I’ve kept my lip from curling when I look at him. He still hasn't shaved.

Maybe I should start in. Maybe by ignoring it, I’m prolonging the agony. What if there is a set number of times I have to cringe, complain, cajole, beg, resist his advances before he’ll cave in? And by not saying anything, I’m just dragging out the process. The last time I looked at him, my lip was beginning to curl. I don't think I can hold out.

The following are some thoughts from the last time he attempted facial hair:


My husband is growing this strange tuft of hair on his face. It’s a circle about as big as his thumb, just below his lip – above the cleft of his chin, if he had one – a cleft, I mean – not a chin.

He has a chin - a nice, square-jawed, clean-shaven chin. I love seeing that chin. In 25 years it’s probably the only thing that hasn’t changed. It’s a can-do chin – young, but graced with fortitude.

Over the years I’ve objected to his growing a beard, saying, “You have such a nice chin. Beards are for men with weak chins.” Besides, his beard was always spotty and reminded me of a potato sprouting. Of course, beginning beards are scratchy, and in the end he would rather have kisses than fulfill his dream of looking like Jeremiah Johnson. It’s been a good, long time since the last attempt.

Until last week. He must have been growing this tuft for quite some time, because by the time I noticed it, it was quite thick and full.

“What in the world is THAT? Surely you’re not planning on keeping it!” Subtlety and diplomacy are not my strong suits.

“Yes, I am.”

“But why? It’s awful…and gross.” I should know by now hyperbole doesn’t work, but I use it anyway.

“Because I like it. It’s cool.” End of discussion #1.

I’m not without comrades in this. My 13 year old Joanna agrees, “Dad, that’s disgusting. When are you going to shave it off?”

He just shrugs. That tuft is going nowhere.


He did shave it not too long after that. But only when he was good and ready. Not because I had badgered him. The badgering probably kept it on.

I can’t be like Pam, who lovingly encourages her husband’s attempt to grow a beard she no doubt despises as much as I do. I don’t have the character, the selflessness.

So, I will try to wait it out, to let him have his way, and console myself with this thought, “Do I really want him to give in, give up?”

Because, in truth, though I really do hate anything resembling a beard on my husband’s face, I am thankful that I married a man who just won’t do what I tell him.