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.”
***
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.”
Arthur greeted me with pink roses.
He smiled, then studied my face long enough to make me touch my upper lip.
“Come in, Holly.”
He led me into the living room.
A woman carrying two crystal glasses entered from the hallway.
“This is Helen,” Arthur said.
He studied my face.
Helen looked at me. One glass slipped from her hand, then the other.
They shattered against the floor.
“Oh, goodness!” I exclaimed.
Helen remained still, staring at my face.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
Helen looked at me.
“Holly?” she gasped.
I blinked.
“Yes?”
Arthur stepped between us.
“Helen, please take care of the glasses.”
She looked at him.
“Arthur…”
Arthur stepped between us.
“Now, please.”
His voice was firmer than I’d heard before.
Helen bent to collect the pieces.
I crouched to help.
“No, ma’am,” she said quickly. “Please don’t.”
His voice was firmer.
Arthur guided me toward the dining room.
“She’s been having a difficult week.”
I glanced back.
Helen was still watching me.
And I had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d recognized someone she wasn’t supposed to see.
Helen was still watching me.
***
Over roast chicken and potatoes, Arthur began asking about my childhood.
Then my parents.
Then whether I’d ever had a sister.
“No,” I said. “Why?”
“Just curious.”
Arthur began asking about my childhood.
I set down my water glass.
“You’re asking a lot of family questions tonight.”
He smiled.
“Getting to know you, darling.”
I tried to relax.
“You’re asking a lot of family questions tonight.”
Then he asked something that made my fork stop halfway to my mouth.
“Did your mother live in Chicago in 1965?”
I stared at him.
“How do you know that?”
Arthur reached for his wine.
“Lucky guess.”
“How do you know that?”
“Arthur, that’s a very specific guess.”
He gave a small laugh.
“You mentioned moving around.”
“I never mentioned Chicago.”
His smile faded.
“That’s a very specific guess.”
For the first time, I wondered whether our meeting had been an accident.
***
Before I could ask another question, his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
“Excuse me. I need to take this.”
His phone rang.
He left the dining room.
I sat alone with my half-finished dinner.
A door closed somewhere down the hallway.
Then came hurried footsteps.
He left the dining room.
Helen appeared.
She wasn’t carrying anything.
“Ma’am, you need to leave,” she whispered.
I stared at her.
“What?”
Helen appeared.
“Please. Before he comes back.”
“What’s going on?”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“There’s something you should know.”
“Please. Before he comes back.”
Helen took my hand and led me toward the hallway.
“Arthur has been looking for you for years,” she said.
“Why?”
Before she could answer, a voice came from behind us.
“Arthur has been looking for you for years.”
“Helen. What are you doing?”
Arthur stood at the end of the hallway.
Helen didn’t release my hand.
“I’m telling her,” she said.
“Helen. What are you doing?”
“Not like this.”
“Then how? You’ve had three dates and an entire dinner.”
I looked from one to the other.
“Someone had better explain what’s happening.”
Arthur approached slowly.
“Not like this.”
“Holly, please don’t be frightened.”
“That’s not a reassuring thing to say.”
He stopped.
Helen turned toward me.
“There’s something in his study you need to see.”
“Holly, please don’t be frightened.”
“Holly…” Arthur panicked.
“No,” I said. “Show me.”
***
His study smelled of old paper and furniture polish.
On the desk sat a small cardboard box.
“Show me.”
Arthur looked at it as though he’d hoped I’d never notice it.
Helen opened the lid.
Inside were yellowed envelopes, newspaper clippings, and photographs.
She lifted one photograph from a protective sleeve.
Helen opened the lid.
Then she handed it to me.
The photograph showed a teenage girl beneath a bright salon lamp, her hair pinned back and her hands clasped in her lap.
I knew her before I recognized the dress.
The photograph showed a teenage girl.
It was me at 17 in Chicago.
I sat down and ran my thumb along the photograph’s worn edge.
My mother had taken me to a beauty consultation at a department store.
It was me at 17.
A woman there promised they could make my face look “more feminine.”
I remembered the powder, the young employee beside the camera, and the adults discussing my upper lip as though I couldn’t hear them.
“That much hair will be difficult to conceal.”
A woman there promised they could make my face look “more feminine.”
“She’ll need regular treatment.”
“Girls are terribly sensitive at this age.”
