I came home from the grocery store last night and was absently-minded blathering on about something or other to my husband as I put the groceries away.

I nearly dropped an entire gallon on milk when I looked over and realized he'd shaved his moustache off.

Now, the man has had a moustache since, well...probably since he could grow one. He only shaved it off one time before, and that was nearly two decades ago, at my request. He looked, in his own words, "Like Bert (from Sesame Street) when he took off his nose." He just looked odd. Something was missing and neither one of us could get used to it. He grew it back.

So, when I saw his new hair-free face last night, I tried really hard to be supportive because it was all my fault. Again. I'd been teasing him about his '70s-porn-star-'stache and trying to get him to shave it off again. I guess I was thinking maybe this time, I'd like it and that maybe last time...I didn't give it enough time to get used to it.

I was wrong. He looks wrong.

I can't look at him without laughing, or at least smirking (which is not sitting well with him at all).

Um, sorry dear, but, hey, at least you get to hear some words you rarely hear from me: I was wrong. You were right.