At 78, I thought I’d met a man who saw me without judging my facial hair. Arthur called my mustache beautiful and requested close-up photos without makeup. It seemed romantic. But dinner at his home left me terrified when his housekeeper whispered, “Ma’am, you need to leave… before he comes back.”
The first time Arthur asked for a photograph of my face without makeup, I thought it was romantic.
The fourth time, I began to wonder.
“Another picture?” I teased over the phone.
“Please, Holly. I love seeing you as you are.”
“Another picture?”
I laughed.
“Arthur, you’ve already seen me three times.”
“Not nearly enough.”
***
At 78, I wasn’t accustomed to a man requesting photographs of my face, especially my upper lip.
The hair had darkened into a noticeable mustache in my twenties.
Strangers sometimes stared before remembering their manners.
I had spent more than 50 years learning ways to hide it.
It hurt knowing people noticed my mustache before they noticed me.
My late husband, Walter, never complained.
Strangers sometimes stared.
He kissed me good morning whether I’d shaved or not.
Once, when I refused to attend a wedding because my upper lip looked particularly dark, he brought me my coat.
“Holly, the bride invited you because she loves you. Nobody’s hiring you to model lipstick.”
He kissed me good morning.
I went, though I still checked the mirror six times.
Walter died nine years ago.
Afterward, I stopped thinking about romance.
I could manage loneliness.
I still checked the mirror.
What I couldn’t bear was the thought of another man studying my face and deciding whether I was acceptable.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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