The day my father shaved his moustache.

Well gentle readers – it’s been forever, and I apologize. Seems that the blog fairy that normally hits me over the head with inspiring ideas has taken a much needed vacation  – much like I will be, next week! Yep, you heard it right – next week my husband and I will be in Mexico, celebrating our 1st year anniversary! I am very excited as there will be swim up bars, a spider monkey sanctuary, Chichen Itza and more!

But on that note – I realized that with this week being ridiculously busy, I may not get a blog post in before I leave. So, at eleven pm this quiet Monday night (turkey resting happily in my tummy) I decided to go through my blog folder on my computer and see any stories I had started… And found this one! You can play a game as you read – which comics are from when I first started drawing for the blog? And which ones are the ones I added today? 🙂

Anyway, onto the story. It’s called- the day my dad shaved his moustache.

Okay, one thing you need to know about my Dad is that… he is his moustache. As in, neither Tom Selleck, Clark Gable or Ned Flanders was ever so much their moustache as my father. It is part of his visual identity. (I know he looks like Mario, but he isn’t.)

So, when  he decided  to shave it during my seventh year on this Earth, it came as a bit of shock.

And when I say shock, I of course mean that I thought a stranger had broken into my home, killed my father and was wearing his police uniform as some sick joke.

My dad and I always gave hugs before he left for work. But today as this large, naked-faced man stepped towards me, arms outstretched I found myself terrified beyond all rationale. My Mother tried to comfort me using hugs and guilt (the latter of which stuck with me as I was raised Catholic), but even that couldn’t coax me to give my father his farewell goodbye.

I couldn’t understand why she was acting so normal towards this obvious charade of my father.  And so with a dark look of venom shot at him, he left the house under my watchful gaze.

But as he left, I sort of started to feel bad.

I realized, he sort of sounded like my Dad. And aside from the moustache, maybe he even looked like my Dad. And then I realized too late that he in fact, was my dad. And I hadn’t given him kisses or hugs. And that he was going to his dangerous policing job.

About five minutes later, my Mom rushed in after she heard wailing.

That evening couldn’t come fast enough. Finally, my loveable father stepped through the door.

I was still a little wary around him.

p.s. IT’S ALMOST HALLOWEEN!