The Moustache Chronicles (Part 2)

To better understand where I am in my adventure, read THE MOUSTACHE CHRONICLES (Part One)

As I am writing this, I am caressing the furry growth that lines my upper lip.  It seems to be at odds with the hair that has taken over the rest of my face.  If my face was a lawn, it would be the kind of lawn owned by a bed-ridden fat man, too poor to hire Mexicans to maintain it.  My face is covered with so much fur that when combined with my uncontrollable hair, I often give off the illusion that I am a ninja.  A ninja not hidden behind a black cloth mask but a ninja masked by an overgrowth of whiskers.  Only my eyes can be seen as I silently sit and watch.  The life of a hair-masked ninja is a lonely one for certain.

But, I can no longer hold back my compulsions, my raison d’État.  I must commit.  For so long, I have neglected what I now believe to be my destiny.

For so long, I have denied myself the joy of a moustache.

It seems that when I first authored “A Brief History of the Moustache,” I was confused.  I poked fun at what I didn’t understand.  I made a mockery of what is truly a marvel of manhood.  The moustache.  The ‘stache.  The lady tickler.  The fanny duster.  The nose bug.

Was I so wrong to ridicule the nose neighbor?  Maybe not.  I was young and brazen, and I had not yet developed the self-confidence that is a must for any true man who wants to rock the ‘stache.

But now, I have seen the error of my ways.  In secret, I retreat to the bathroom and place my hands over my face, allowing only the bristly crumb catcher to be seen.  When I come back from the restroom, my friends and family ask why I look like I have been crying.  I, of course, tell them that I accidentally rubbed toothpaste in my eyes.  But, they know.  They know.  They know I long to carve away all the other vestigial hair that covers my money-maker, leaving only the finest of lip accessories.  Of course, nobody understands, and I am of course shamed. 

Why?  Why am I shamed?  Do my friends and family not know how much I want this?  It’s not my fault.  Do they realize how hard it is for me to come out and say, “I WANT A MOUSTACHE!”  Nobody asks for this.  They are born like this.

But the longing has become too great.  I must become an artist – a master sculptor.  I must chip away at the unsightly beard that hides a masterpiece.  I must reveal my moustache, and I must let it stand alone for the entire world to see.

Of course, Meggie objects.  Of all of the people, Meggie should be the one who supports me.  She should embrace what she knows is in my heart and tell me to go with it.  But when I say that I want a moustache, she looks at me in disgust.  She tells me that a moustache will make me look “creepy.”  Every time she throws these retorts in my face, a piece of me dies.  True story.  I keep these dead pieces of me.  They are in a bucket under my bed.  My dog Rowdy got to them the other day.  It was gross.

But I digress.

Tonight, I am calling a meeting with Meggie.  I am going to sit her down, and look her in the eyes.  I am going to say.  “Meggie, I love you, and you love me.  I know you think the moustache is a bad idea.  I know you think it is ‘creepy.”  When I say this, I will “air-quote” “creepy” for effectiveness.  I will then say, “Meggie, I have a destiny, and that destiny is a moustache.”  I will say this as I punch the air.  This will be done to punctuate my determination.  I will then say something romantic like, “You complete me” or “You make me want to be a better man” or “I like your cooking.”  As her heart melts, I will quickly snap at Rowdy for eating the dead pieces of me in the bucket again.  “Rowdy!  No!”  Then I will grab Meggie’s hand, lean in and whisper, “It’s just you me and a moustache, baby.”

Of course, I will not wear a moustache at the wedding.  This is Meggie’s wedding, and to don a moustache would take all the attention off of her.  Also, I still believe that the rules of the moustache hold true, and I must be a married man to have a ‘stache.

But that day is approaching.  Some may wonder if I am doing this for the glory that comes with a moustache.  Yes, in sporting a ‘stache I will command respect.  Children and adults alike will call me MISTER Garcia.  But really, my moustache will mean something bigger.  It will mean that I have taken a hold of my destiny and embraced it.  I will carry a message for all men to stand up and proclaim, “I have a moustache.  I am proud.”