1
Stan
"This sweater issougly."
"Haha. It's not that ugly, it's just... interesting looking."
"Just say it. It's repulsive." A sigh. "My grandma gave it to me as a gift, and I promised her I'd wear it at least once. But look at it! Doesn't it make your eyes want to bleed?"
I couldn't help hearing my coworkers' conversation, considering they made no attempt to hide it. We were on break in the lunch room so I meandered over. Donna and Alice, the one wearing the so-called 'ugly sweater', both turned to greet me.
"Oh, hey, Stan," Alice said.
"Hi," I said, observing the sweater she was wearing. It was dark beige with random maroon stripes. It definitely wasn't Alice's usual preppy style—she was a blouse and skirt type of woman—but it wasn't hideous. Not in my opinion, anyway.
"I don't think your sweater's that ugly," I said. "And besides, even if it was, what's wrong with being ugly? I'm ugly."
Alice and Donna exchanged a glance and sighed.
It wasn't the first time we had this conversation. They already knew my thoughts on ugliness and I knew theirs. Still, I couldn't help but speak up.
"Stan, you are not ugly," Alice said, crossing her arms. They looked bulkier than usual because of the beige maroon sweater. "You have to stop calling yourself that."
I shrugged. "Why? It's true."
Alice rolled her eyes. "It's not! You just don't put any effort into your appearance. I'd bet my paycheck for the next six months that if somebody cleaned you up, there'd be a super handsome man under there."
I snorted. Like that was ever going to happen. "Keep your paychecks."
Donna reached for my sleeve. It belonged to an ancient sweatshirt I'd had since high school—a solid decade old—that was made of cheap material. The sleeve was riddled with holes.
"Did this used to be white?" Donna asked sympathetically, raising an eyebrow.
"I think so. I don't remember."
Donna sighed. "Well, it smells like fresh detergent so it's not dirty. It's just…erm, well loved?"
"Of course it's not dirty. I only wear clean clothes to work."
Alice put her hand on her hip. "See, that's what's funny about you, Stan. You're a stickler for hygiene. Like, every time you walk by I can smell your shampoo and your clothes are always fresh. But at the same time, they’re falling apart!" She reached over and picked up a limp strand of hair hanging over my forehead. "And when was the last time you had a proper haircut?"
"I trimmed the edges of my hair a couple months ago, I think. Maybe.”
"Youcut it," Alice said meaningfully. "Not a professional?"
I laughed. "Oh no. I haven't paid someone to cut my hair since high school."
Alice looked like she was going to faint. She sat down in her chair and shook her head with a sigh. "Come on, Stan, you're killing me. What about Donna? She's not a professional, but she cuts her son's hair and does a great job."
Donna giggled. "Oh, shucks, you're embarrassing me."
"Would you let her do it?" Alice asked pleadingly.
I felt bad turning them down, especially since Donna was so nice and jumped at the opportunity to do anyone a favor.
"Sorry, but it's a no go," I said.
"Why?" Alice demanded.
