Death to the 'Stache

Today was a momentous day in our household. Our oldest son, The Young Adult, had his first shave.

Yes, he is still 13. Yes, he really....really....really needed to do it.

"How long did it take you to grow that mustache?" "Couple of days."

It is just wrong to put "My First Shave" into your son's baby book.

Reminds me of one of my favorite shows, King of the Hill. In the episode "Dale to the Chief", Dale says to his prematurely mature son Joseph":
JOSEPH: I had the scariest dream!
DALE: Oh. How about I read you a story? Just like I used to before you grew a mustache and became so frightening. 

Just looking at my towering, 13-year-old mustachioed man-child has been weird the past few weeks. Where did my baby go? And why do I seem to produce hairy children? The Young Adult gives every indication that he will be a Wookie when he matures. His armpit hair is more luxurious than what most grown men can produce. The Monkey calls it "fluffies" and is endlessly fascinated it with it when The Young Adult wears a sleeveless shirt.

I remind his younger brothers, who are yucking it up,  that they, too, may be shaving at 13. Don't. Mock.

ArtGuy took The Young Adult into our bathroom and led him through all the minutiae of what it take to shave properly and not slice your face in half. Romeo and I were the gawking audience.

It is done. He is clean-shaven. For now.

All clear!