I have a mustache.
Not the Burt Reynolds or Tom Selleck type. Not Ron Swanson, Groucho Marx or Clark Gable. Not Dali or Twain. It's not the creepy type, either, I think. It's more of a Sam Elliott. But instead of gracing the face of a charismatic actor with a honey-drenched baritone, it abides on mine.
It is shaped like a horseshoe, but I'm no cowboy. I prefer the bicycle to the horse, so I like to think my facial hair resembles more of a handlebar. In these cold days of winter, as my trusty steel steed lies in wait in the cold garage, I can look in the mirror and be reminded of warmer days in the saddle.
It may sound strange to seek some sort of physical commonality with a machine, but it is what it is. I love my bike, and I love growing facial hair.
In my 25 years as a follicle-capable person, I've grown and shaved the gamut. In the late '90s, my upper lip was largely bare, but I could grow one of those chin-only goatees so ubiquitous back then. It seemed like a grungy, rocker sort of thing to do. An act of rebellion and, for me, an act of proving that I was a member of the hirsute set. Now, alas, the goatee is anything but rebellious. More of a dad look than a radical one.
In the aughts, I had mutton chops. At my shaggiest, I was asked to appear on morning television to talk about a story I'd written. I showed up at 5 am, and the looks on the faces of those gleaming, styled broadcast journalists said it all. A werewolf was in their midst, and they had to put him on air. I was great. Didn't howl once.
A decade ago, I inadvertently crested hipsterdom as I let my freak face fly. I'd left a newspaper job and was freelancing. The hair grew and grew. It grew down and out to the sides. Without exaggeration, nearly everyday someone — almost exclusively men — told me how great my beard was. Some actually grabbed it and tugged. My wife feared I would never shave, but she remained supportive of this unshaven undertaking. Until she could no longer take it, and told me I was beginning to look too much like her father. I shaved.
The first few times I sported a mustache was as a joke. A brief, minuteslong fling as I removed a beard, or took a razor to a days-old five o'clock shadow. I'd laugh and pose in the mirror before lathering up and scraping it off. It was not yet fit for the world.
The first time I kept it, however, I was smitten. I'd grown old enough to see the charm in a mustache, shedding decades of anti-stache propaganda as I embraced the true potential of being a man with hair on his face. My wife again had my back in this brave endeavor, but my mom told me I looked like a creep. So I kept it long enough to see myself in photos, when I thought, "Who let me keep this on my face?" It, again, was gone.
This current iteration I've had for nearly a year. It came from a trim beard, which too became the victim of a photo of me and all that gray hair that is colonizing my once luxurious, brunette beard. But not above my lip. So, yes, I have a mustache because I'm vain about my (prematurely! I swear!) graying head.
So the mustache abides. My vanity won't go away, but I'm not concerned. I'm not out to please the world. No, I've got a handlebar. Just like my bike. ♦
