I usually have a scruffy face. Sometimes the scruff becomes a beard, and then sometimes it becomes a big beard. That's usually when I trim it down, and start the cycle all over.
I don't just shave. I play games with Rebecca. "Would you still love me if I looked like this?" I ask her as I stick my face out of the bathroom door, with a fu manchu and sideburns. "Yes," she reassures me.
"Would you still love me if I looked like this?" I am wearing a goatee, reminiscent of a bank manager or used car salesman. "Yes," she reassures me.
"Would you still love me if I looked like this?" My facial hair is gone, except for a nice moustache covering my upper lip. Tom Selleck would be jealous. She falters. "I'm not sure about that one." I consult the mirror again. I'm not sure about that one either. There's something so 1980's and so suburban about the moustache that just clashes with my constitution. Some men can do it. I am not one of them.
After showcasing my facial hair creativity, I buzz it all off, and begin again.
Last night I tested Rebecca's devotion with an Abe Lincoln style beard. Something rather Amish looking. Heather calls this style a "Chin Strap." It looks like I should be wearing a helmet. "Would you still love me?" "Yes."
I returned to the bathroom to buzz the fuzz, only to find that my beard trimmer's battery had died. Our apartment is relatively big, but not big enough to lose anything in. Except, of course, for the charger. I tore the place apart, unable to find it.
The beard trimmer lies waiting for renewal, and my new appearance has transformed me from the Jeremy that everyone knew to Jeremiah, a simple man with a Chin Strap.
Despite my new found urges to raise barns, churn butter, and hand carve quality wooden furniture, she does still love me. I suppose I'm lucky for that, and of course, lucky I'm not stuck rocking a molester moustache, alone.