I Was Screwing Around Shaving. My Wife

Good thing for that period up there in the title, aye?

Anyhow.

I was screwing around shaving. My wife said if I had white hair I’d be a dead ringer — or rather the live ringer of the dead author — Mark Twain — a scribbler I set at the very throne of all that mattered when I was a kid.

My plan upon shaving this monstrosity onto my face was to shave it off. I can imagine the guys at the bar air-strumming bass guitars and otherwise rendering porn music into laughs. Ugh. And who was that — Earl!

Hell no! It’s coming off.

But I couldn’t buzz the fucker — I put a ton of work into getting the lines clean and trim — without allowing Julie and Jovi to share the laugh. I’m humble like that, and magnanimous. So I went out and she said that about grandmaster jedi Mark Twain looking like me and that sent me to the mirror with a new set of eyes.

This is what I thought: I don’t know, but I think I can carry it.

We went our ways and a couple minutes later we were outside. I like the outside air and Jovi needed refreshment. Julie was with. We get to talking about this and that. It’s brisk. We’re walking back toward the garage and we pass the car. I look in the glass and see Sam Elliot looking back at me, — you know, back from Roadhouse, or whatever — and Julie said,

“You keeping that?”

I said I’d have to let it grow on me.

Ha!

I don’t remember what I actually said. Anyhow, what say you?

Keep it or buzz it?