#260

In church on Sunday I noticed a few guys holding their little sons. I noticed little arms around weathered necks. Meanwhile, a pro wrestler couldn't hold my son like that. He's about five-ten now and stout. It happened overnight. I noticed something else in church: I was standing by Michael and we were facing forward, but I glanced sideways and caught his profile and there, faint but unmistakable, I saw the sheen of darkening hair on his upper lip. He'll be shaving soon. Great. Here comes the parade of teenage facial hair abominations. Mustache fuzz, fu manchus, lamb chops, chin straps, chin curtains, whatever, stuff so wispy and thin it can't be named. Is that supposed to be a goatee, Michael? Teeny-tiny stingers, worn loud and proud but only about five hairs. And the Abe Lincoln, patchiest of all. I tried everything; if sculped just right, I looked like a man (in no one's opinion but my own). I sported chops for a decade. Being a late bloomer in every sense, my mustache was cotton-soft until I was 30. Anyway, my plan for Michael is simple: I'll buy him a razor that's expensive and endorsed by the manliest, clean-shaven mother-f*cker around. Be like that guy, Michael, and shave.