Furlough Joe

As a Chicago firefighter, my husband is not allowed to have a beard.  I think it has something to do with his mask not sealing properly if there is hair in the way.  I, for one, can certainly appreciate a good safety rule.  I make my kids wear helmets and knee pads.  I yell indiscriminately at any child running with a stick at the park.  I carry a first aid kit in my purse.  My husband only recently put the kibosh on my forcing the kids to wear life preservers in the kiddie pool.  Haven't we all heard of cases where children drown in an inch of water?  My point exactly.

Yet despite wanting Joe to return safe and sound from the firehouse, I do miss out on the ability to mix things up a bit.  When Joe grows a beard, he looks like a different person.  Part lumberjack.  Part high school teacher.  It's like having a whole new husband:

Why in the name of God won't firemen ever smile for the camera?

So during those rare instances where Joe goes longer than a few days away from the firehouse, he will skip a day of shaving.  Then I pounce and ask for the old "furlough beard" that firemen sometimes grow.  Joe goes along with it for me because it makes me happy.  He tries hard not to scratch and complain too much.  He's a trouper.

The beard will be gone in a couple of days and I will soon be left only with my memories of "Furlough Joe."

I will never let go, Furlough Joe.  I will never let go.

(cue Celine Dion ballad)