Beards

I stood in the doorway of the living room and peered inside. There, on the couch, Twiggy sat hunched over a guitar as he tried to work out the song he had started earlier in the day. It would have been a scene that made me smile, he it not been for one thing.

"Twiggy, seriously. You need to shave that beard," I sighed.

The smaller man looked up at me, his eyes narrowed. "No."

"It looks like you have a dead animal on your face. It's fucking weird," I complained, wrinkling my nose. It just looked wrong, like it didn't fit his face. His scraggly dreadlocks framed his face like usually, but his equally unkempt beard obstructed the view and made him look like a homeless person, not Twiggy Ramirez. Not to mention that it was exceedingly uncomfortable for me to get close to him.

"I don't care. It's my fucking face," he shrugged. Then he continued his guitar playing.

"You are not going on tour like that," I stated. I felt like one of those stereotypical bitch girlfriends that were so popular on TV. All I had to do now was put my hands on my hips and give him the cold shoulder until he shaved off his fucking beard. Unfortunately, neither of us were stereotypical of anything, especially not the glamorized, semi-dysfunctional couples of the celebrity world.

"Okay, whatever. I'll shave it before we go on tour. Not a big deal." Twiggy's unresponsive behavior greatly annoyed me. No matter how hard I tried to hide it, I knew how easily the bassist was reading my expression.

"Kissing you is like fucking roadkill," I sneered, purposely trying to be as petty as possible. Much to my surprise, Twiggy broke out in a smile. He set his guitar down and turned his attention to me.

"You know what kissing roadkill is like?" The shit-eating grin on his face fueled my frustrations even more.

"Oh, ha-ha, asshole. You know what I meant," I snapped. "Why do you even want a beard, anyway?"

He stroked his new mess of facial hair thoughtfully. "I dunno. I just like it. Makes me feel important."

"And you can't feel important without a beard?"

"I can. I just like the beard."

I growled out of frustration and left the room before I was tempted to knock the asshole out and shave his beard off myself. From the room, I could hear his taunting laughter and then the sound of him packing up his bass.

I stormed from the house and into our garage to start the car. We were supposed to head to band practice. I started it up and waited for Twiggy to wander out and join me. It took him several minutes, which only pissed me off further. I knew I was being snotty and unreasonable, but I refused to change my attitude.

Twiggy put his guitar in the backseat, then climbed into the front with me. For a few minutes, there was silence. Then, he spoke. "This isn't really about my beard, is it? There's something else."

"Nope, this is about your fucking beard," I said as I backed out of the garage. "It's fucking atrocious."

Twiggy simply rolled his eyes and stared out the window rather than conversing with me like he usually did. I had to admit; he looked good, even though he wasn't dressed to impress. He had on a black sweater, ratty black jeans, and his boots. It was just the beard that threw me off. I was so used to him looking very feminine that it was weird to see him with facial hair. It made me feel less in control of him.

It took a few minutes to get to the studio. We had taken a bit of a vacation, and it was almost nice to be back. I had gone to see some family, a trip I already regretted. I don't know where the the rest of the band went, but Twiggy stayed home. He claimed that, for a week, all he did was sit on his ass and watch TV.

We pulled into the parking lot of the studio, the car still immersed in silence. The bassist grabbed his guitar from the backseat and scurried to catch up with me as I started for the door. Much to my surprise, the rest of the band were already in the studio. Ginger, who was attempting to read, was being tormented by Pogo as John looked on in vacant amusement. As soon as we walked in, they quit their actions and turned to gape.

"Twiggs, what happened to your face?" John asked curiously, his giggle of disbelief echoed by Ginger.

"I grew a beard," he replied, stroking the thing lovingly. I sighed loudly and pulled off my coat quickly. I threw that over a chair and my keys on the table, then walked over to them.

"Nice," Pogo laughed, giving the bassist a high-five. I rolled my eyes at him - he had grown a beard on our vacation, too. That would simply be encouragement for Twiggy to keep his. I could see the argument now: 'But Pogo has one! Why can't I?'

"I gotta say man, you look weird like that," Ginger pointed out.

"Thank you!" I exclaimed, exasperated. "At least someone agrees with me."

"I think it looks great," Pogo declared with a smirk.

Twiggy beamed. "Someone agrees with me. So we're even."

Everyone in the room turned to John expectantly. The guitarist suddenly looked less amused. "What?" he squeaked.

"Well, John? Whose side are you on? Do you like Twiggy's beard or not?" Pogo asked, trying to prompt the guitarist. John looked from me to Twiggy.

Always the non-confrontational one, he finally said, "I don't really care, either way."

"Let's just get on with the recording," I sighed unhappily. t was Twiggy's turn in the booth. He took his bass proudly and made himself comfortable. John grabbed his guitar as well and began to practice whatever his latest musical kick was. I simply plopped down in a chair next to our producer and fumed to myself.

The day felt far too long and was filled with nothing but repeated bass lines over the drum tracks Ginger had already recorded. Everyone was still feeling lazy from their vacation, and even Pogo was flipping through the pages of an exceedingly large book. I almost wished that they'd start fucking around so that I could think of something that wasn't Twiggy's fucking beard.

When Twiggy stepped out of the recording booth, I refused to look at his smiling face. I didn't care that I was acting like a petty bitch. I was used to getting my way, and I didn't like when people deprived me of that.

"What do you think?" he asked me as he plopped down in a chair to my right.

"Sounds good," I mumbled. Rather than look at him, I fiddled with some of the controls on the mixing board.

He frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Mhm."

"You don't sound like you're sure."

"I am," I murmured. I could feel Twiggy's eyes boring into me, but I did my best to ignore his attempts at getting my attention. The tension in the room became almost palpable.

"Uh... are we done for today?" John asked. His voice cut through the room like knife. When I whirled around to look at him, he was donning an innocent, sheepish smile.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess we are," I said with a sigh. "I don't feel like working on anything else, anyway."

As soon as I'd spoken, we began to pack up. Everyone's instruments were put back in their respective places. Bags, jackets, and John and Twiggy's guitars were on their way out the door. Everyone seemed anxious to leave.

Half-hearted goodbyes were exchanged as we stepped outside. Pogo began walking down the sidewalk to lord-knows-where, John and Ginger got in the drummer's sports car, and Twiggy and I climbed into our own, lesser-quality vehicle.

The day continued to be long and boring, even after we got home. We snacked on leftovers in the fridge, then went our separate ways. Twiggy plopped in front of the TV and I began to read in a different room. Before I knew it, the sun had set, and I was crawling into bed. Moments later, Twiggy slid in next to me.

"Marilyn?" he murmured, snaking his arm around my waist.

"Hm?"

"Are you mad at me?"

I sighed. "No."

He leaned in for a kiss, but I put my hand on his chest and pushed him back. It was too dark for me to see him, but his pout was palpable in his voice when he asked, "What?"

"I'm not going to kiss you with that on your face."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he laughed, incredulous. He fell back against his pillow and turned away from me. He was silent for a moment, then stood and gathered his pillow up in his arms.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"I'm going to sleep on the couch."

"Twiggy, come on. You don't have to do that," I groaned in protest. I snapped on the bedside light and propped myself up on my arm to watch him as he neared the door. "Twiggs, I'm sorry.

My protests were met with the sound of the door slamming behind him.

__________

Days slipped by, days that soon turned into weeks. Very slowly, the bassist and I began to grow apart. We basically had separate lives at that point; the only time our paths crossed and we conversed was when we were in the studio. There, we got along great, but it was a different story at home.

The moment we stepped through the door, we went to separate ends of the house to go about whatever it was we needed to do. This routine went on even after we had finished the album. It wasn't exactly a joyful thing, but neither of us wanted to swallow our pride and solve the issue.

A few days before our tour started, I was frustrated beyond belief. I had received a call from our booking agency with a list of venues that weren't going to allow us to play. Rescheduling was a bitch to deal with, and by the time I was done negotiating, I just wanted to throw the phone at the wall. I was holding my head in my hands, waiting to calm down, when I felt someone wrap their arms around me and place their chin on my shoulder. I consciously relaxed into his touch. It had been a long time since we'd had that kind of physical contact, and my first reaction was wanting to tense up.

"Did you get it all worked out?" the bassist asked in a murmur.

I sighed. "I hope so."

"They know what they're doing. It'll be done before we get on the road," he said reassuringly. He began to stroke my hair.

"Well, it needs to happen soon. I'm tired of thinking about it." I rubbed at my face and turned around to face him. I almost jumped in surprise. He was clean-shaven. I wasn't used to that. A faint smile crossed my face and I stroked his chin. "You shaved."

"Yup," Twiggy grinned with a sense of pride.

"Good," I said, resting my forehead on his chest.

"Are you still mad at me?"

"I was never mad at you," I protested, then hesitated. "I guess I was just pissed that I wasn't getting my way. I wasn't mad at you, I guess, just at you not doing what I said."

"Ah." Twiggy paused, pondering. "We've never had a fight before, have we?"

I thought about that. "You're right. We haven't."

We fell asleep together that night, but we both knew that things weren't ever going to be quite the same. We'd discovered a side of each other that we never really wanted to know. We knew that now, it would be okay to fight about petty things, to the point where we would be desperate to get away from each other. I knew he'd move back into his own house, and, in turn, move away from each other socially.

All because of a fucking beard.