He stopped working on his hair long enough to admire himself in the mirror. While he still wasn't any more handsome than he had been before, he at least looked respectable and non-threatening. True, she'd managed to soften his face enough that he looked slightly feminine, and the hair on the wig was longer than anything he'd ever sported—even back in the sixties, he'd never felt the need to grow his hair out like a hippie.  Still, his mom had always told him that beggars can’t be choosers. His grandmother had had similar advice, although it was slightly more colorful.