I do not get the fascination men have with facial hair. Seriously. Do. Not. Get. It.
Facial hair is trimmed, groomed, waxed, somewhat shaven, fully shaven, partially shaven, sometimes shaven, sometimes grown and then shaven – have you ever seen women treat their leg hair like this? (Though I guess there is a similar, far more secret, fascination with hair in the, erm… nether regions).
All of the men in my life (my father excluded) have this fascination with cultivating their own personal patch of facial hair. My little brother Angus has made a concerted effort over the last two months to raise a little moustache he affectionately called Hernisio.
Sadly (for Angus; endless waves of happiness for the rest of us) Hernisio met the Grim Reaper on Sunday. His timely death reminds me of a Bill Cosby quote: “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out!” It was Angus that ended Hernisio’s brief but meaningless existence. It’s the first mercy killing for sheer ugliness I’ve experienced.
And, indeed, even Angus had to admit that his Frieda Kahlo-esque (but blonder) facial smudge was actively making him less attractive. It was then that with much sadness he decided to put Hernisio out of everyone’s misery.
Now while the shaving was necessary, I’m still not sure that the funeral was.
There were mourners.
There were speeches.
There was a gravestone.
And then there was wine.
Angus is much better looking with a smooth face.
The Boyfriend has an ambition to grow his beard to the point where you can grab a nice handful of it under his chin. I told him (perhaps unfairly) that if I can grab it, I will rip it off. Though I must add that my opinion of facial hair was rather strongly influenced by Roald Dahl’s The Twits. Dahl was anything but complementary about facial hair.
In this vein, RIP is actually rip, as in Angus, let me rip that smudgy monstrosity off your face.
And as my mother said (Angus read ‘messages to Hernisio’ while playing Celine Dion at the wake) “may we never see his like again”.