65

I don’t have any facial hair. Indeed, I am incapable of growing any. I suppose it’s some kind of ailment with a name, but I’ve never looked it up. My disability extends to some other parts of my anatomy although some things are best left unsaid.

Discreetly changing the subject, I fell in love.

She’s tall—stately even—with straight black shoulder-length hair and an absolutely lovely curly mustache. Her chin sports a nifty goatee. In short, she’s everything I’ve always wanted. She’s got it all.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy. She appeared aloof and although she lived in the unit next door, we rarely spoke. I was desperate to win her.

The courtship was a difficult one. I imagined she had many suiters. But eventually we met for coffee, then a movie. I wasn’t sure if we were just friends, but I wanted more. I wanted her, her luxurious hair that wasn’t limited to the top of her head, I wanted it all. And dammit, I got it!

We were married. It was the culmination, perfection itself—except for one small detail. Her facial hair. She had it and I didn’t. I felt inferior, demoralized. She sensed this and shaved off the curly mustache and the pointy beard. True, the hair on her back remained, but I couldn’t expect her to shave where she couldn’t reach.

Now we are in bliss. We are the happiest lesbian couple I know.