Grooming your Groom

We all do it. We all need it. Some of us more than others... It's called damage control. Maintenance. Tweaking the canvas God gave us, so we won't be lookin' all Wolverine for the rest of the world.

Now when I say groomin' your man, I don't exactly mean helping him scrub-a-dub in the tub. There is a line, people. I'm talking about tweezers and the pure joy of ripping unnecessary hair from your spouse's face.

Marriage, as we all know, is a wonderful display of acceptance and love, but let's be real... the "Just as I am" mentality doesn't exactly float my boat when it comes to bodily hair, especially when it's staring me in the face. Call me rude, but I think I'm doing the world a favor by preventing my husband from becoming the next Anthony Davis. (Google it.)

Men don't seem to really be bothered by their unruly hairs. They don't care if there's a clear division between left and right or if those dangling hairs above their eyeballs blur into one scraggily, horrifying line.

I can't really blame them. I guess if you're already accustomed to a white, hairy manthigh, manbrows are just a drop in the Amazonian bucket.

Any time I want to pluck the unyielding hairs out of my sweet husband's forehead, I have to beg him. Sometimes he'll let me, sometimes he'll run away. Usually, the conversation will go something like this:

Me: "Hey, do you wanna do something really fun?"

G: "Always."

Me: "OK. Well, I'm talking a grand ol' time."

G: "Babe, I already agreed."
Me: "OK close your eyes. I have to grab something. I'll be right back..."

G: "No, babe! You are not plucking my eyebrows. No. No. No. Do not get the tweezers."

Me: "Please, babe! You know I love to tweeze!"

G: "Back away from me woman. I said no."
Me: "Really, I'm trying to help! It'll make you look pretty!"

G: ".... Um, yeah. Pass."

Moral of the story: If you don't already, you should feel sorry for Grahm.