Poor Mr. B. Because of the M-word, he has to go for a skin check every three months. That in itself is no big deal, but at his last appointment the dermatologist told him he had to shave.
(His beard, people.)
Even the beard is not that big of a deal. He only grew the beard at my request last year. It's the mustache, see? He really, really doesn't like not having a mustache. I don't know how long he's had a mustache, but it's been some years.
We had a little discussion about it when he first brought home the news. He was sure they wouldn't mind if he left the mustache. I voted for a clean shave; after all, it would be really embarrassing to end up with melanoma of upper lip because he didn't shave the mustache.
Last night, with a heavy sigh, he trudged upstairs to do the deed. When he came down and rejoined us in the living room, I'll admit it was a bit of a surprise. Young Son was completely taken aback and pretty much ordered him to grow it back immediately. I wracked my brain trying to remember if I had ever seen him IRL with out a mustache. Verdict: I don't think so. He's fortunate he is not one of those guys that has to wear facial hair to conceal some less-than-optimal facial structure, but it is definitely a different look.
He said it was no big deal -- that he was fine with it -- but his body language did not confirm that. He was not displaying a relaxed and happy demeanor last night.
In fact, this morning I realized that his expression reminded me of nothing so much as a dog wearing one of those plastic 'don't lick it' cones. You know, that "What did I ever do to you" look.
He's at his appointment even as we speak. In fact, I expect the beard-regrowing has already commenced. Young Son has decided it will be a science experiment: He wants to find out how long it will take to fully return. Current prediction is that by the end of September, Mr. B will no longer be wearing the plastic cone.
And let's hope that's the most we have to worry about.