That Bushy Faced Devil Who Shares My Bed

Since my husband now lives in the attic, emerging only to take meals and refresh his glass of low-sodium V-8, he has grown a ferocious beard. The beard is larger than his whole head and exists, presumably, to scare off any intruders when he drops on them, catlike, from the spot he occupies in the eaves.

This is not my husband. My husband is hotter. But a beard does not look good even on this reasonably attractive fellow.

 

The beard is of the ilk that would cause Jeeves, Bertie Wooster's man, to discreetly place a razor at the side of the breakfast plate each morning with a poignant, meaningful "Sir" until the matter were dealt with appropriately. It has quite taken over my husband's dear face, such that I can see his glimmering, beady blue eyes winking through the coarse matting.

Some elements of the beard are asymmetrical and tufty.

I am in some ways responsible for the beard, for I am fond of a "rugged, manly look." I did not know that it would so quickly o'ertake his face! I did not know that it would grow, and grow, as if an angry marmot were ravishing his chin!

I have begun to fear that the beard has addled his normally sharp brains. For example, I often ask his advice on some of my writing projects. He usually responds with appropriate and kindly criticism. But not since The Beard hove on the scene and began, with its coiled tendrils, to tighten its grip on certain areas of the brain responsible for common sense and intelligence. Last night I asked him what he thought of something brilliant I had written, and his response was lukewarm.

"Really?" says I. "I thought it was rather clever!"

"You are wrong," says he.

"Am I?" says I. "You don't think it's prize-worthy prose?"

I heard a voice speaking out of the tufted mass of tangled hair, and it said something like: "No one will ever buy it. No one will ever read it. No one gives a shit about such topics!"

"I will no longer dedicate my book to you, then!" says I heatedly.

"Poo!" he snarked. "Don't, then!"

"I won't!" I cried. "And another thing, I am going to write rude things about you, and post them online!"

"Do your worst clangings and bangings and tippity-tappings!" he said, sounding and looking an awful lot like "Gurgi" from the Chronicles of Prydain.

His beard sharpened into steely points, and we were at an impasse. I have set traps for him, and they are baited with Bushmills whiskey and Guinness.