the marriage fail

I was washing my face this evening, the usual pre-bed preparations when I was met with the biggest marriage fail of the last four years.

There, on my right cheek, just far enough towards my ear that I was unable to detect it, was a black hair. A face pube. It looked like an eyelash growing out of the soft, delicate, ladylike palate of my milky white face.

My immediate reaction was to call the hubs into the bathroom, point out the hair and demand explanation. How long had it been there? Why the hell wouldn’t he have said anything? For years I have loved him enough to insist he groom his eyebrows, cleanse his skin, moisturize, mind the nose hairs, and he lets me walk around with a twig growing out of my face. Like a witch. Or worse. An Italian.

He tried to insist that he hadn’t seen it. As if the toothpaste tone of my skin wasn’t a stark enough visual contrast to the raven spinter. Frankly I’m surprised someone hadn’t tried to tug at it, thinking (mistakenly) that an eyelash had fluttered down and rested on my cheek. They would be expecting to balance it delicately on their index finger, just in front of my lips, insisting that I make a wish. I don’t think you wish on facial pubes. I think you hope they don’t blacken and shrivel your index finger, cursing your children to be bearded. The girls.

I knew he’d seen it. Even as he laid the denials before me, I knew. I had already made my mind up to blog about it.

I brought the laptop into bed to try to get a few things down before I forgot. (The delicious smelling house guest is still in the living room.) When the hubs got into bed he looked over and saw that the blog was up on the screen and asked, You bloggin’ about your sideburns?

Rot. in. hell.


BTW, I could not have been more thrilled by Zemanta’s “related articles” suggestions. I’ve included a few below for your enjoyment.

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