A Razor's Edge

Cristina (mi compañera) made the call today and a question arose.

“How is the stubble?” she asked.

Yes, Cristina insists on the stubble. But the truth is that since my earliest ages I also have considered its status.

After years now, I instinctively wield a razor between basketball matches. Only a matter of timing insures that a cosmopolitan ruggedness emerges by contest time.

Yet Cristina's question struck deeply: How IS the stubble?

I am far from home. For months, I lack the normality of urbane Spanish influences. Where are my sources for the comparison? Do I sport mere scruff today or are these the bristles of old growth?

“Un momento,” I tell Cristina.

I look to the framed touchstone I keep hanging on the wall. Then I glance mirror-wards. The comparison is favorable. My face is sporting a balance between the suave and masculine dimensions.

With the confidence, I tell Cristina my stubbling is perfect. She is pleased, and we speak of other matters.

But in reserve, I keep a further truth from her: I wish a machisto new look if my mates and I can reach the playoffs!

Adición: Informants inform that I may soon be "rocking the 'stache." So be it. The English word "bigot" is most unfavorable, yet in Español, Banderas shows us the coolness of el bigote (aka, el mostacho). ¡Voy a mover el bigote!

Posdata final: It was a testimony to the stubble that I crossed a feared barrier in our match against the Clippers: Yes, I have broken the pressure of the reviled chalupa! This may have opened floodgates elsewhere: Felicidades to Penelope Cruz and Steve Blake. (One won the Oscar. The other broke a record for assists in a match.)