This is my husband, J. It’s OK – you can ogle him – he’s ridiculously good-looking.
Two weeks ago, my knight-in-shining-cargo shorts departed for a week-long fishing trip in Canada. He was with his father, grandfather, brother, and assorted uncles and male cousins. Among the many competitions they held (biggest this, longest that, I’ll leave the rest to your imagination…), they also thought up a beard-growing contest.
And my man? He’s a winner. This is seven days of effort, folks, just seven days:
And then came the Week of Hairy Horror. Discontent with the itchiness of his face, but loathe to let his prize-winning follicles go gentle into that good night, J decreed that the last week of June 2013 would forever be remembered as that time he did unforgivable things to his chin. I submit for your judgment:
And with that, we’re back to our regularly scheduled good-looking-ness. And lightsabers. Because never. Not. Lightsabers. Seriously – this is J at work.