Today marks a milestone in Hillbilly history.
The Pony shaved his chin whiskers. They've been multiplying. When there were just a few, he enjoyed stroking them like a wise man contemplating an earth-shattering decision. Then they got longer. And more numerous. So much so, in fact, that The Pony himself asked for a shaver. Sweet Gummi Mary! Don't even mention a razor! We can't have The Pony hacking himself to bits.
A few months ago, The Pony and I bought him a shaver on one of our weekly trips to The Devil's Playground. Or so we thought. Nobody made an effort to show him how to use it. And by that, I mean neither of the two be-whiskered males in the Mansion attempted to take The Pony under their bushy wings. I even heard The Pony pleading for guidance. But it was like a real-life Cat's in the Cradle lesson courtesy of Harry Chapin.
The device sat on the living room end table for eons. Finally, this morning, I commanded Farmer H to show the hirsute Pony how to groom himself. Hmpf! It seems that stupid old Hillbilly Mom bought The Pony a trimmer, not a shaver. Excuuuuuuuse me! I think a trimmer would work perfectly well on chin only. There was even a picture on the box of a dude shaving his chin. The Pony helped me pick it out. But no. We are imbeciles.
I persuaded Farmer H to drive T-Hoe to The Devil's Playground. We have seven or eight inches of unforecast snow, you know. And while we were there, I made sure that Farmer H and The Pony picked out a suitable shaver. Norelco. Same as Burl Ives, the bowler-hatted, plaid-vest-wearing Snowman rode down the snow-blanketed hill in the original Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer network broadcast.
When we got home, and merchandise was packed in and stowed away, Farmer H plugged in The Pony's new shaver to show him how it worked. I took a picture of the soon-to-be-harvested chin whiskers. Then, to the horror of The Pony, Farmer H committed and act that made me downright apoplectic. HE SHAVED HIS NECK WITH THE PONY'S BRAND NEW SHAVER!
I know, right? HOW DARE HE? Can a Pony have nothing to call his own? Who wants old man graybeard clippings in his new shaver? Not ME, that's for sure. And, I suspect, not The Pony. Though he hides his emotions better than I. He nodded. With a sickly expression. Then whisked his new shaver off to the bathroom to denude his chin in private. When he returned, that chin was soft as a baby's butt. He even let Farmer H cop a feel. Funny how the #1 son declined the offer.
The Pony left his pencil-thin mustache in place.