At 78, I thought I’d met a man who saw me without judging my facial hair. Arthur called my mustache beautiful and requested close-up photos without makeup. It seemed romantic. But dinner at his home left me terrified when his housekeeper whispered, “Ma’am, you need to leave… before he comes back.”
The first time Arthur asked for a photograph of my face without makeup, I thought it was romantic.
The fourth time, I began to wonder.
“Another picture?” I teased over the phone.
“Please, Holly. I love seeing you as you are.”
“Another picture?”
I laughed.
“Arthur, you’ve already seen me three times.”
“Not nearly enough.”
***
At 78, I wasn’t accustomed to a man requesting photographs of my face, especially my upper lip.
The hair had darkened into a noticeable mustache in my twenties.
“Not nearly enough.”
Strangers sometimes stared before remembering their manners.
I had spent more than 50 years learning ways to hide it.
It hurt knowing people noticed my mustache before they noticed me.
My late husband, Walter, never complained.
Strangers sometimes stared.
He kissed me good morning whether I’d shaved or not.
Once, when I refused to attend a wedding because my upper lip looked particularly dark, he brought me my coat.
“Holly, the bride invited you because she loves you. Nobody’s hiring you to model lipstick.”
He kissed me good morning.
I went, though I still checked the mirror six times.
Walter died nine years ago.
Afterward, I stopped thinking about romance.
I could manage loneliness.
I still checked the mirror.
What I couldn’t bear was the thought of another man studying my face and deciding whether I was acceptable.
Then my granddaughter signed me up for a dating app.
“Grandma, you deserve company.”
My granddaughter signed me up for a dating app.
She laughed and uploaded my photograph.
Three days later, Arthur appeared.
He was an 80-year-old widower whose first message asked whether I preferred crossword puzzles in pen or pencil.
She uploaded my photograph.
“Pen,” I replied. “I’m old enough to live dangerously.”
“Then we’d get along,” he replied.
***
We exchanged messages every evening.
He remembered that I grew roses and asked about my granddaughter’s new job.
“Then we’d get along.”
When I mentioned my mustache, I held my breath waiting for his response.
Instead, he wrote:
“Please don’t ever shave it. I think you’re beautiful exactly as you are.”
I read those words three times.
Then I cried.
I mentioned my mustache.
Not because Walter had failed to love me.
Because I’d spent so many years refusing to believe him.
***
Arthur brought my favorite lemon cookies to our first date.
When I caught him looking at my face, I touched my upper lip automatically.
I’d spent so many years refusing to believe him.
He noticed.
“You don’t have to do that around me, Holly darling.”
I lowered my hand.
On our second date, he photographed me beside a rosebush.
That evening, he asked for another picture without makeup.
I sent one.
He noticed.
On our third date, he asked whether I’d always lived in the same city.
“Not always,” I said. “My family moved around when I was young.”
He seemed interested.
Perhaps a little too interested.
He asked whether I’d always lived in the same city.
***
A few days later, Arthur invited me to dinner prepared by his housekeeper, Helen.
Before we hung up, he made another request.
“Would you send me one more picture?”
“Arthur, at this rate you’ll have enough photographs to open a museum!”
Arthur invited me to dinner.
“Just your face, darling. No makeup.”
I paused.
“Why are you so interested?”
“Because I love your natural beauty.”
I wanted that answer to be enough.
“Just your face, darling.”
So I sent the picture.
But that night, I noticed something odd.
Arthur had never asked for a photograph of my garden.
Or my house.
Only me.
I noticed something odd.
***
His house had old bookshelves and photographs of a woman I assumed was his late wife.
Arthur greeted me with pink roses.
“For the lady who grows better ones.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
