It was the type of argument that goes on forever unless either good sense or boredom intervenes. This time it was about the stubble growing on my face.
I was saying, “way” to growing a beard, and my wife was saying, “no way” because she hates beards, especially on me.
Frankly, I am indifferent to facial hair. I wore a beard for years – until the night of my brother’s bachelor party in New Orleans. Then I woke up without one. When I asked about it, I was told not to ask – about anything. So that was that.
And while I have no particular fondness for beards, I absolutely detest shaving. Therefore, since she hates beards and I detest shaving, we have this endless ‘way’, ‘no way’ conflict – but like all of our disagreements, we have reached an uneasy compromise, though one that leans in the direction of who despises what more than the other.
And like all of our compromises, it is one that must be tested, so I forgo the razor until she objects, usually by pinching my chin to demonstrate what it feels like to kiss me.
But whenever one of us goes off without the other, I grow a beard. This time she is taking a quilting tour just before I go on a canoe trip with Stan.
The thing is, a full week falls between her return and my departure and therein lies the rub. I wanted to get a head start on growing something truly glorious before heading into the wilds of Canada.
I put my foot down.
This time I got my way and all it cost was the stink-eye.
A few days later, I received an email from Stan. It was his list of what to bring on the trip. Since we will be days beyond civilization, it is prudent to make a list of what we will need and compare lists.
I get him on the phone.
“You listed a razor and shaving cream under essentials.”
“You got to be kidding.”
“It’s not for the back country,” he explained, “it’s for the drive home. Daphne and I had one of those ‘way/no way’ arguments about growing a beard and she won.”