Scarlet Letters

The not-so-private thoughts and rants of Elizabeth Donald, journalist/author and founder of the Literary Underworld.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Sartorial Statistics

ME: Aaaah! Noooo!
HIM: What?
ME: You shaved your beard!
HIM: Don't start that, I did not. I trimmed it.
ME: Trimmed it to nothing!
HIM: It's there.
ME: ... I need a magnifying glass.
HIM: I trimmed it to a 2!
ME: You can't go lower than 4. Ever again.
HIM: It's my beard, woman!
ME: Don't call me woman! You can't keep it as low as when you were young, it's all gray and it disappears!
HIM: Gee, thanks hon.
ME: How about this? I can cut my hair every time you shave your beard.
HIM: No. I love your hair. You may not cut it.
ME: Oh yeah? Says who?
HIM: Me. Cause I'm the man and I say so. *chokes*
ME: Say that again with a straight face.
HIM: ... I can't.
ME: You're adorable. Or you were!
HIM: It's still there!
ME: I loved your beard! It was all lovely black shot through with silver, so distinguished. You could be an honored head of state with a beard like that, or maybe a Bond villain.
HIM: ... That's quite a leap there, hon. *tries to kiss me*
ME: No! I don't kiss beardless men! Besides, now it's all spiky and stabs me.
HIM: Ha! You admit it's there!
ME: It's invisible.

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