How is a Delicate Lady Like Myself Meant to Confront Him About His Appearance?

It’s a fragile matter. Ladies are to be seen but not heard, at least that’s what Papa always told me. But I always felt like he listened to my silly ladylike quibbles and quandaries. Met all my pesky feminine needs and more, if you catch my drift. At last, though, that boyish stubbornness has reared its head in my betrothed; for now he has a wispy pretense of facial hair that he refuses to rid himself of.

At first I thought nothing of it. Everyone knows that men are too busy working and fighting wars to trim themselves all the time. Even though he feels the need to comment whenever I have even the slightest hint of leg stubble, I was willing to be patient with him. During our weekly Novack teatime, the other ladies said their men had similar issues, and that it was just a matter of getting behind on grooming during the holidays. They advised me to subtly hint with my womanly wiles that night.

“Darling,” I said, “How abouts we groom ourselves together? I need some help reaching behind my corset. I can get my legs nice and smooth the way you like them, and you can… take care of that thing on your face.”

His confused expression told me that my woman-words were far too intricate for the man-mind. Giving up on verbal indication, I wiggled my finger over my lip in a rough approximation of the scraggly excuse for a mustache I was looking at. 

“Uh, babe, why are you even wearing a corset? Stop acting weird,” he said, ducking his head back into his psych textbook. At least it covered the abomination on his lip from my view. All was not lost though; a modern woman knows to plan for male obtuseness. It is, of course, my job to schedule everything for my man, from his courses to his ultimate frisbee practices. Importantly, though, I also schedule his haircuts. I booked him one as soon as possible and happily saw him through the door.

The abomination returned home that night. The locks atop his head were fresh-cut and shimmering courtesy of Hanover Haircutters, but the half-shaved ferret still curled on his lip whenever he spoke. When I asked the magazines, they said this could only mean one thing: he’s looking this way intentionally. My man, the man who I’ve dreamed of marrying, the man who tells uproarious jokes like “Maybe you could talk like a normal person, babe?” 

He’s gone mad, I tell you. The Dartmouth’s been talking about female hysteria being found in males in rare cases. It’s not enough to get rid of the lumpy face carpet at this point, the lunacy has already taken him. I still love you, darling. I love the long-dead version of you that was sane and clean-shaven. I don’t know what ailment took hold of you during winterim, but maybe this is simply a lady’s just reward for seeking love in the Beta basement.

— C.T. ’26