My wife cannot look at me. She literally cannot look at me.
Her instant reaction on seeing what I have done is to run screaming into the bathroom. She shuts the door behind her. This is serious.
I try to explain why I have done what I have done, but she won't listen. Every time I try to say something, she shouts: "La, la, la. La, la, la. I can't hear you. La, la, la."
She can't hear me and I can't see her, because the door is still shut, but I imagine she has her hands pressed to her ears.
The explanation for our domestic drama is simple. I have grown a moustache. I decided to take part in this Movember thing, although I have gone off message, for reasons that will become apparent, in terms of the charity I am raising a few quid for.
I have been surprised by my wife's utter revulsion vis-a-vis the lip ferret. For many years now, I have sported what was once dubbed a "Jimmy Hill" - namely, a chin beard and moustache combo. I have dabbled with the fuller beard, like the bloke in The Joy of Sex (younger readers should think: Captain Birdseye), but was it too itchy.
All I have really done, in order to comply with the Movember rules, is to strip away the goatee. I've gone for a Half Hill, if you like, a Demi Jimmy - also known as a moustache.
At first glance, I can see why my wife might be distressed with my new look. Growing a moustache has never been particularly cool. At school, it was something of a badge of honour to sprout facial hair, suggesting as it did advanced pubic development, manliness and the possibility of copping off with an older girl.
But it was never cool. As much as a glimpse of downy hair on the upper lip of a fifth former might spark a frisson of admiration, the moment soon passed amid chants (to the tune of He's Got The Whole World In His Hands) of: "He's got bum fluff on his lip. He's got bum fluff on his lip. He's got bum fluff on his lip. He's got bum fluff on his lip."
Actually, I am quite chuffed with my efforts. I toyed with a classic Tom Selleck or a Burt Reynolds but found myself drawn to the dropped handlebar, zapata look. Hey, maybe I could reach the Promised Land of trimmed face bushery and look like George Michael? "More like Lemmy," said my wife.
But why such a radical departure from my usual on-trend sartorial elegance?
From last week's column, you will have picked up that our younger daughter, Livvy, 13, has been ill. We went through the worst fortnight of our lives after she was diagnosed with a tumour during an ultra-sound scan at Birmingham Children's Hospital. Livvy was immediately referred to the hospital's oncology department and was seen within hours by child cancer consultant Dr Martin English. Our daughter had emergency surgery to remove the tumour and 10 very long days later were told that laboratory tests revealed it was benign. Dr English said he wouldn't need to see Livvy again. Never have I not wanted to see such a caring, dedicated man again.
Since then, I have been walking around with a profound sense of gratitude - gratitude to our family GP and her female colleague who got the ball rolling, to the hospital doctors, the oncology department, the surgeons, nursing staff and pain relief team who helped out little girl as well as thanks to the relatives, friends, colleagues and virtual strangers who have been so kind.