Moustache man
Ciara O’Connor
You might know
him: The baby-faced 30-something man who was supposed to be getting married this spring, who is now instead growing a wispy porn ’tache at home. He knows it’s terrible but there’s something gratifying about its repulsiveness, the quiet taboo sitting right there (almost imperceptibly) on his face: ‘I am a man who can’t grow a proper moustache. I am a man who has always had to shave my meagre efforts, for fear of social recrimination.’
Or maybe you are him. Are you him? I have questions, friend. You’re safe here; I’m sure sometimes it feels like you’re the only person in the world without facial hair.
During 2014’s ‘Lumbersexual’ mania (a shameful stain on modern history) did you become tempted by Men’s Rights activism, or do you know that shaving-shaming is the same patriarchy that oppresses women?
Did you watch Mad
Men and think: “Look! Look.”
Do you suspect that the real reason James Franco makes some people’s skin crawl is not the allegations of sexual misconduct but his patchy moustache?
Have you taken to hats, or glasses, or face tattoos to break up the treacherous spoonish monotony of your face?
Do you dread November, when people ask why you’re not growing a mo’ for charity?
Did you always wonder: “Maybe I just haven’t given it enough time? Maybe what I need is a global pandemic to just give me a couple of months in privacy to see what happens?”
To you, grower of the ‘unsatisfactory’ quarantine ’tache,
I say: I am with you.
Your life-partner hates it. They tell you all the time. She drops it into conversation; you catch her gaze resting on your philtrum, a slight narrowing of her eyes, curl of the lip. But she knows the joy of repellency: she’s wearing mom-jeans.
You deserve to see this through: you deserve to know what follicularly rich men know half-way through shaving, when they leave the moustache for a minute and just enjoy the mirror. Feel the breeze through your tender down, run your fingers along it like you never thought you would.
You’re doing great, buddy.