One of the great things about not having Erica around, nay, any female partner for that matter, is that I don’t have to shave. Yes… scruffy facial growth. The typical facial feature that characterises both unemployed bums and students alike (pretty much the same thing I guess).
My general rule about shaving is this. I won’t bother unless I’m going to work, attending a social situation, or going out to a kinda niceish (and above) dinner with Erica. You can call it laziness if you like, in fact, I’d be hard pressed to defend myself against that claim as it’s mostly true, but I do have other reasons for letting these uncommitted strands of black Asian bum fluff sprout all over my face.
One of these other reasons is that I know it bugs Erica. It fact, like my games of dutch ovens, I get secretly amused when she tells me to go shave ad neuseum because not only do I look like a dirty pervert, but my face is all scratchy too. Now some would say this trait of mine is childish and immature… but I prefer to think of it as cute and endearing. SHADDUP I SAID IT’S CUTE AND ENDEARING!!
Another reason is that I’m just so curious to see how I would look like with a full grown facial scrub. Given that I am only capable of producing a handful of whiskers, any amount of decent growth takes a pretty long damn time. And even then, it’s sparser than desert foliage. I’m envious of all those manly men whom can sport anything from a panty wetting 5’clock shadow, to a thick full beard, luscious goatee, mutton chops, or handlebar mustache. Facial hair is simply all kinds of awesome.
Unfortunately, the only look I can pull of with my facial weed is that of some Asian pedophile, smut peddler, or train molester. And that fricken’ sucks. So much so that I’ve been barred from ever partaking in Australia’s Movember fund raising event.
I guess I can kinda understand where Erica is coming from. I used to kiss a guy that always had facial scrub growing at the end of the day, and it chafed the hell out of my face. It wasn’t pleasant at all so Erica has a point. Btw, that guy was my dad you dirty bastards. I still remember that every time he used to kiss me goodnight it felt like I was getting my face removed by sandpaper.
In fact, only once in my life have I ever been complimented on my efforts at facial hirsuteness. And that was by a stripper at Mens Gallery back in the day. And as much as those words of flattery had set my barely pubescent heart a flutter, deep down I realised one thing. Strippers are fucking liars. I knew I looked like crap (because everyone I knew insisted I shave that ratty thing on my face off), and that she was probably just trying to distract the dirty little asian looking pervert from going to bukkake town on her and getting his ass thrown out before he could blow all his dancing dollars.
I wish I could look like Wolverine…