Three-day stubble-OR- why won't it grow on TOP of my head?
 

I didn't shave Wednesday.
I didn't shave Thursday.
Now it's Friday.
I didn't shave this morning.
I could blame my not shaving on being late for work, which is not entirely true.
More accurately, I just didn't want to do it.

I was sitting in front of the tv, scratching my itchy chin, watching Matt Lauer do his thing in London and just figured what the hell. I don't have any appointments today that would require a smooth face, so screw it.

The only problem is that the weekend is coming fast.
As most any man knows, Man Law Number 17 requires eschewing the razor on a Saturday and Sunday. Shaving on the weekend is just not right.

Unless that man must attend a funeral or wedding. Even then, shaving depends on who is getting married or buried.

If it's mom being buried, God rest her saintly soul, you shave. Or if it's mom, and she's getting married for the fourth time (the trollop!) you shave anyway. After all, she is mom.

If the deceased is somebody your spouse met at a Tupperware party,

'We really should go. At least to the viewing. She was such a sweetheart.'   You don't shave.

(Unless you know the spouse is going to bitch about your rough face for a few hours. Then, just for household harmony's sake, you lather up, thinking how good that beer is going to taste after what's-her-name is planted.)

So here I sit, thinking how scraggly I'm going to look by Monday morning.

I have the kind of beard that comes in patches. It won't look butch and handsome, like those guys on Gray's Anatomy, it will look more like I have some sort of rare disease.

And, no matter how much I will it, hair WON'T grow on top of my head. It's heartbreaking when you have more hair on your chest than you do on your head.

Thank God I'm just a plain old Friend of Dorothy and not one of those metrosexuals. I'd hate to have to shave my chest too.

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