I told you it disgusts me that you insist on growing a moustache. And I thought I should have some say, because I have to kiss you and every time I try that thing makes me question for a second just who I’m kissing. We agreed that the moustache was creepy and unattractive. I said you looked like a child abuser and you said the proper name for it was a “molestache.” Horrible. But as you said it, you smiled so deeply and I knew, eventually, I would have to let you keep it because you’ve always had this thing about making yourself look worse on purpose. You love it. Because it’s like being your own actor and your own joke.
Technically, you claim that it is for your band. The four of you all have horrible, horrible moustaches. And your excuse is that all the girlfriends hate the moustaches, not just me, and that I’ll simply have to endure until the end of April, when moustache season is over.
You have bits of sideburns too, but you can’t grow them well and there are patches between your hairline and your sideburns. When you did finally grew a beard out, as a compromise, you had to keep it just around the edges of your face, like a frame, because nothing would grow on your cheeks, and I thought it also looked creepy and inappropriate, because young white men don’t wear beards like that. It’s not for you.
Right about then, I started overall jeans season. Because you told me once that you hated them and I definitely agree. They make every woman look pregnant and every butt flat and wide. But there’s something really lovely about making yourself look worse and I feel it when I wear them. I can be a new person. You taught me that.
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Portland Fiction Project
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