Beauty and the Mustache by Penny Reid Page A

like my father. I
have his thick dark hair and bright blue eyes. I have my mother’s
nose, but I have my father’s wide, full mouth and his height. I am
his child, and I hate the man. I hate that I look like
him.
    My father is a gifted
musician. Despite my love of singing and playing the piano as a
child and teenager, as a young adult I rejected those creative
outlets.
    My father is a great
dancer. I take pride in my corny dance moves.
    My father is a talented
con man and a charmer. I am honest to a fault and embrace the
discord caused by my bluntly spoken opinions.
    It’s hard to find joy in
gifts—or potential gifts—when they’re tainted by
association.
    This is something that
people with kind, well-meaning parents have difficulty grasping.
It’s not about self-pity and it’s not self-loathing. It’s a
desperate desire to disassociate oneself from evil.
    “ Sorry,” Sandra said, “I
know you don’t like to talk about him.” Her tone was repentant, but
she looked a tad frustrated as she gestured to the unzipped duffle
bag. “Enough of this feelings stuff, look at your
presents.”
    “ Go on then.” Elizabeth’s
mouth hooked to the side. “Dig in.”
    I opened the mouth of the bag wider and
began pulling out items.
    I found the pillow from my
bed, candles, chocolate, tea, wine, more wine, my two favorite
paperback romance novels, new yarn—and a vibrator.
    “ What…?” I looked at the
vibrator; blinked at it, and I lifted my eyes to Sandra’s. “What’s
this?”
    “ It’s a vibrator. Haven’t
you ever seen a vibrator before?”
    “ Yes, Sandra, I’ve seen a
vibrator before. Why in tarnation did you bring me a
vibrator?”
    “ Well, isn’t it
obvious?”
    “ No.”
    “ It’ll help,” she said
simply.
    I stared at her for a long
moment then rolled my eyes. “It figures that you would bring me a
vibrator. You are completely wack-a-doodle-doo.”
    “ Wait a minute, if you
must know, it was Janie’s idea.” She raised her hands in surrender
like she wanted to keep me from launching into a tirade. Sandra was
referring to our mutual friend and knitting group compatriot, Janie
Sullivan. Janie was an Amazonian Princess-sized walking, talking
version of Wikipedia. She was also completely oblivious to the
obvious. This combination made her infuriatingly
endearing.
    “ She read a study—which
she shared with me—about how going through the death of a…of a
parent is less stressful for people who are married or in a serious
relationship, presumably because of the comfort they receive from
their significant other. Part of that, Janie reasoned, and I
agreed, is definitely orgasms. Also, I packed you condoms—lots of
them, all different sizes. Believe me when I say that having the
different sizes comes in really handy. No pun intended.”
    I sputtered for a few
seconds then managed to finally say, “You’re off your rocker, and
Janie is nuts. You’re both cracked nuts.”
    “ I would have brought a
life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam, but this one,” Sandra
indicated to Elizabeth with her head, “thought it would be
awkward.”
    I interjected, “Wack-a-doodle-doo!”
    Just then, a rooster
crowed in the yard, as though to echo my insult. We ignored
it.
    Elizabeth crossed her arms
in a defensive stance. “It would be awkward. And, technically, it
was larger than the allowable size for checked bags and carry-on
luggage.”
    “ I think they must make
special accommodations for life-sized cut-outs. I mean, how else
would you be able to cart them across the country? How do you think
Darth Vader makes it to all those kids’ birthday
parties?”
    “ They’re mailed…via the
post office.” Elizabeth’s tone was droll and her expression flat.
It was obvious that they’d argued this point prior to leaving
Chicago.
    “ We didn’t have time for
the post office before we left.”
    “ Please don’t tell me you
had a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam made.” I already knew
the