The first scene was at the supermarket down the street from our house---the one where the classes mix freely, not the one across town that most can ill-afford. I was at my usual observation point, the exit aisle beyond the check outs, waiting for my turn to bag our few groceries. Behind my husband were two dark blond brothers very close in age, likely no older than twenty. They looked a lot alike except for one maintained the latest careless look, complete with a heavy mop of hair, while the other had his hair very short and neat. Both were very small men, only a couple of inches taller than my husband---with fine, almost delicate features. They had a full shopping cart, suggesting that task had been left to them because of a long unconventional if not broken situation. They were very at ease with their cart, with the neat one going off for a last minute item. Shaggy had a large can of Monster in his hand.
The checker was a dark haired young woman, and by a few words exchanged between them it was likely they knew each other from high school. She was now scanning our few items, a task she didn't have to pay much attention to because she had obviously been observing the neat one for some time.
"What are you staring at?!" she said sharply, her tone a perfectly unspoken oh my god. I heard her even at twenty feet.
"His mustache," the neat one said meekly. "I love it. I want one."
My husband absently reached for the upturned corner of his facial accessory and smiled. "Maybe when you're older."
The checker just shook her head in disbelief, as if to say you want to look like him?
Of course that would be impossible. With my husband's big eyes, big nose and long upper lip his mustache is in perfect balance. Any attempt at replication by that sweet young thing would look like he was snorting a dead gerbil. He did sport what whiskers he had neatly along his jawline, a look he pulled off well---giving a masculine edge to his prettiness.
Yes, he was rather pretty---which gave pause to what he actually loved and wanted. Shaggy seemed unperturbed by his brother's admittance, so obviously both had a strong sense of self. My last glance over them made wonder if they were actually twins---not identical, perhaps, but with a deep understanding of one another from a long reliance.
A week or so later we were sitting in the left turn lane in our Patsy Prius when a large pick up rolled up beside us, playing what my husband calls "boom-boom" music. It's one of his terms to go along with a half-dozen inflections that makes him sound like my grandmother, which is understandably alarming. Anyway, my husband looked up out of his open window---and for some reason I made the effort to cop a gander myself. The driver hardly looked the "boom-boom" type---appearing quite small and suburban in his big truck. I don't know what kind of levity my husband was broadcasting to him, but the driver finally looked down and a moment later the noise ceased. In recollection I recall the old-fashion jumble of words and music as someone flipped a knob, but seconds later the latest country-western music started pouring out of his cab. While ever-mindful of men in Wranglers, my husband's taste in country music falls off somewhere between Patsy Cline and Lynn Anderson, but it was a definite improvement---if not a knee-jerk reaction to a long ago head slap for not respecting your elders.
And what does this have to do with my man's mustache? I can't imagine what change of genre we would have experienced without it, let alone any consideration in the matter.
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