Chester only shaves when he knows he is going to see Francine. He doesn't need to look good on any other day and, though he detests the itchy spines of peach fuzz that poke a pesky reminder at his unshaved visage, Chester does not care enough to rub his face with a blade unless Francine's name dots his itinerary.
Chester hadn't shaved in over two weeks. Something had come up and he'd had to postpone a date with Francine. He had done this twice and a five o'clock shadow had grown into something resembling mildew all over Chester's face and neck. It was ugly, it was scratchy and it had a funny smell.
Chester's friends begged him to shave, even if it was for their own benefit. They called him names like Serpico, Scorsese and Chewbacca. They thought he was winning a dirty man competition. One particularly mean friend even asked Chester how it felt to change his name "from Cat Stevens to Yusef Islam." These were painful comments but Chester refused to shave. He only shaved for Francine.
One day, Chester had completed his morning routine (shower, _____ and shine) and was in his car hurrying to get to school school when his phone buzzed. It was Francine. Chester took the call. Francine talked briefly about her adventure at the hair salon the day before before getting in to the meat of her call. She wanted to know if Chester was available for lunch. Her afternoon class had been canceled and she had to go by Chester's school anyway to purchase a graphing calculator...
Chester panicked. He looked in his rear view mirror and noted the knotted troughs of hair pouring from his face like milk from a curd strainer. He whipped open the glove compartment, hoping against hope that someone had left a blade in his car -- even if it was a disposable pink razor or a Venus Embrace. He'd actually used on of those once and it wasn't too bad. The lavender scent on the comfort strip left a pleasant aftersmell, too.
Focus Chester! Chester tried to regain control of his thoughts. Maybe he could stall Francine.
"You know, I've got tons of homework to do today. I should see about getting that done..." Chester knew this was weak, but he had to try something.
"Don't be silly. I'll see you at noon at Mr. Pickles." Francine would have none of Chester's shennanigans.
Women! Chester thought.
The minute hand of the clock behind the professor moved at an excrutiatingly dilatory pace. Chester wanted to stand up and move it forward. He wanted to get the awkward introduction between beard and Francine out of the way. But the temporal will could not be swayed. The seconds passed in no great hurry and the sardonic tick of the second hand only magnified Chester's consernation.
When class ended, Chester prayed a brief prayer of deliverance and then marched across the street toward the bumpy green cucumber restaurant.
Francine was already there and her reaction was about what Chester had expected:
"Chester! My, what happened to your face?"
"It's a growth. Fungal. It's not contagious. The doctor said it should be gone in a treatment or two." Chester was so proud of himself!
"Will it come back?"
"Maybe. Probably not, though. What are you having for lunch?"
And that was that. Chester had survived his facial hair.