I sat him down on my chair and hovered over my computer to type in the Google image search. I clicked on the first random picture, shook my head, came back to the first search results and clicked a more well-known picture.
“See! Doesn’t he?”
GS cocked his head sideways, murmured, “Why yes,” he leaned closer, “He does look like me.”
The Olympics were good for a girl in a longish distance relationship. A replicate of my boyfriend was skimming across the ice in a tight bodysuit, starring in commercials, and giving interviews. Even J, who previously was only half aware that the Olympics were on and didn’t know who this athlete was, didn’t quite believe me until a promo flashed on the screen and stopped him in mid-ridicule as I sat glued to the TV in the living room for one of the nights. “Wow, now that’s creepy.”
The darkened eyes, a smile with wattage, and similarly tossed hair were all a build toward the doppelganger effect, but what caught me was the duplication of the smile in conjunction with the facial hair.
GS has what I can only call an extended soul patch that adds definition to his face and that I hadn’t seen too often and now see everywhere.
I have never been a girl to actively go for a guy with facial hair; it has always been something that had come with the package. However, I’m very much aware that it’s their face to do with as they please and that love should not be a coercion of self. [That said, GS threatens me that someday he’ll grow out a real Mexican ‘stache and I will admit I cringe a bit.]
The first interaction with facial hair was with someone who I had known previously as not being able to grow any and who, when older, had grown a goatee. The new look was something I found somehow to be an amusing sign to how time had changed us on the surface. He had shaved it not too long after we came together, randomly, and as he picked me up for a date, I recoiled from him. There was too much remembrance of us when we were 17 and he looked immature and anachronistic. I was horrified. He grew it back.
J I knew only shaven clean, yet constantly grumbling about his five o’clock shadow that was sometimes a bit more of a midnight o’clock after he let it go a day or two. A few months back I suggested he grow out a beard just for the hell of it since his facial hair does grow so fast. Two days later, J was Evil J, who invoked a Commander Riker feel. J was suddenly a twin of himself who had just a bit of a darker edge. It made me actually twinge when I saw him and lament, “Where did J go?” He shaved it. I guess its upkeep was more of a mug than just trying to keep it all shaved.
I love to watch a man shave however. It’s one of those glaring male/female differences I find fascinating. It’s a strange calming noise to hear the blade slip or scrape against skin. You’re watching a man handle something dangerous with utmost calm and gravity. Maybe I’m wrong, but I feel as if that must be up there with the couple of key ideas of masculinity.
Other thoughts on male facial hair, can be found at Tales of a Mom (who inspired the topic).