Things my wife hates about me: my beard (first of series)

I routinely make decisions that cause my wife, Carissa, to cringe.  Mostly I can explain these decisions.  The not-quite-dirty/not-quite-clean collection of clothes that I maintain in an informal pile in front of my dresser is one example.  These are my stretchy clothes that I like to wear when I get home from work.  Don’t want them mixing with the clean clothes in my dresser drawers, don’t want to wear them out from unnecessary washings.  So the pile abides.

My decision to stop trimming my beard is more complicated.  It’s a goatee with a mustache, really.  I used to have an aggressive fu manchu mustache that I was quite fond of but abandoned years ago after accepting that I was not ever going to be a cowboy or an outlaw biker.  Still, I can’t be clean-shaven because I need facial hair to balance out my baldness (it's a rule - you can look it up).  So I maintained a closely trimmed beard for a number of years.  Carissa regularly told me how much she liked my beard, most likely strategic flattery to dissuade me from returning to the fu-man.  It has worked.  Then three months ago, I decided that I would no longer trim my beard.  Carissa has hinted that she does not prefer the untrimmed look.  Or as she puts it, “I hate your beard.”

Growing out the beard is a complicated decision to defend because I don’t have a good reason for making it. And yes, I now realize the illogical nature of the decision.  I don’t even have a dumb reason that I could attempt to rationalize as if it were a good reason. Nope. It’s just a notion I had one day. A whimsy.  But I can’t just abandon my arbitrary choice.  That would only reinforce to Carissa that she can dictate my behavior simply by telling me she hates something.  So I’m stuck with a ratty-ass beard for the foreseeable future.  At least my stretchy clothes pile will bring me comfort.