There's a certain rhythm in nature. A cycle if you will. That predictable, nay-- comforting pattern of repeating events that guide us by the hand through the passing of our months and years. No I'm not talking about seasons, because let's face it, I live in the Pacific northwest where we have two months of summer and a 10 month winter interrupted by about a lunch-break's worth of autumn.
No the cycle I speak of is my dear Catherine's fascination with the idea of my sporting facial hair.
Because compromise is the hallmark of a loving and devoted domestic partner, and because she just won't stop nagging me until I do, I find that about once a year I have to indulge my Sweet Patootie with some form of facial adornment . . . just to remind her why we don't do this more often.
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