The Operating Room supervisor said no. My girlfriend said yes.
The sup was correct; my mask did not completely cover the tangle of curls from my newly grown burnsides. I liked the way my girlfriend smiled when she played with them, but I wasn’t happy with the supervisor’s scowl when she saw them. One saw something she liked; the other a blemish.
I didn’t want a beard, so the burnsides seemed to fit the bill – facial hair but no shaggy food-catching beard.
Doctor Harris, the possessor of a great handlebar mustache, suggested a neatly trimmed ‘stache was the way to go. After thinking it over, I agreed. It was a bit of a challenge to shape and trim correctly, but one day there it was—and no more curly burnsides. The supervisor admitted my mask wholly covered the mustache and was satisfied.
The girlfriend moved on to someone with full facial hair like a Yeti. But Sally, the supervisor, eventually decided it, and I was cute.
When one door closes, often another opens.

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