Can a moustache REALLY make a man irresistible?
It might make a chap look like a 1970s porn star, but all the Hollywood hunks are doing it. We challenged HENRY DEEDES to grow his own soup strainer, so . . .
POLDARK himself, Aidan Turner, was recently snapped with a magnificently walrusy version, Jude Law unveiled his fulsome number on an American chat show, while Normal People’s Paul Mescal has been sporting his for a year.
Hollywood hunks appear convinced that the moustache is a sex symbol must-have.
Admittedly, Aidan Turner swapped pped his stubble for a handlebar moustache because of a new role in the Disney+ adaptation of Jilly Cooper’s ‘ bonkbuster’ Rivals, which is set in 1986.
But not since Jilly’s heyday — when almost all caddish male characters had facial fuzz — has the ’tache been such a symbol of thrusting virility.
Last year, one study claimed 68 per cent of women in the Uk found men with a moustache more attractive. As fashion bible Grazia breathlessly announced: ‘The moustache is back!’
One of Apple TV’s most successful shows, Ted Lasso, features Jason sudeikis as a loveable American football coach sporting a plump, caterpillar-like thing on his upper lip. Pop star harry styles grew a ’tache for a bit, too.
Meanwhile, men’s barbers such as D.R. harris now sell their own dedicated moustache combs and scissors. Penhaligon’s flog specialised moustache wax to hold twizzled ends in place.
Until this, in my view, regrettable renaissance, the moustache conjured rather stuffy associations: army generals, flying aces, Bertie Wooster. so, you can imagine my reluctance when Femail challenged me to cultivate my own soup-strainer.
They promised it would make this 44-year-old journalist movie star-hot, but I was not filled with giddy excitement. Fashionable or no, there’s something about the ’tache that still screams 1970s porn star.
But I agreed. Could it make me suddenly irresistible to women — or more authoritative at work?
THESE days, beards are everywhere. What started in east London’s more salubrious hipster enclaves is now socially acceptable everywhere. even Prince harry felt comfortable enough to meet the Queen in ginger whiskers.
The moustache, though, is a very different beast. It’s so much more deliberate, with a raffish, spivvy quality.
I decided to take the organic approach and simply let everything - grow wild to begin with. Best not try shaping the thing straight away, or risk looking like a wispy adolescent with bum fluff. Actor Timothee Chalamet made this mistake, stepping out with a thin, wiry-looking growth which made him look like the maitre d’ at a middling French bistro.
Being in my 40s, my facial hair at least has the advantage of growing into something more rugged.
The early stages of facial germination were not entirely pleasant. It doesn’t help that my once-black stubble is now grey. While Bruce Willis could pull it off in a ripped vest with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, I suspected I looked as though I’d slept on the pavement the previous evening. Day four and things start to become pretty uncomfortable. Waking up in the morning with one cheek against the pillow, it feels as though a clump of fishhooks are embedded in my face.
After ten days looking like Grizzly Adams (including a visit to my parents, where my ungainly whiskers get a resounding thumbs down), I decide to see if the fur on my upper lip can stand on its own two feet, so to speak.
Arming myself with an electric clipper, I carefully give the rest of my face a gentle mow, then give the remaining hairs a little twiddle with some hair gel to make my ’tache appear more groomed.
The result has something strangely retro about it. Part World War I army officer, part Inspector Japp from the Agatha Christie novels, this was far from the cringeinducing disaster I had feared.
However, when I greeted a female pal one evening after work, she recoiled at the thought of giving me a welcome kiss on the cheek. ‘I might give that one a miss today,’ she said, squirming slightly.
A colleague I met for lunch one day was even less enthusiastic. ‘ Dear God!’ was all he could manage. Crikey. That bad?
In the office, there were the anticipated sniggers. At the photoshoot, however, the stylists whipped themselves into a flurry of enthusiasm about it. They were too polite to say so, but deep down I suspect they thought I looked comical.
I was starting to feel a little rakish, however, finding myself constantly stroking it. I must have looked like a Riviera gigolo. But, boy, was it impractical. I became permanently aware of these wisps of hair at the front of my nose. I worried they might be in danger of giving me a squint.
And if you think eating spaghetti can be a messy affair, don’t try shovelling it into your mouth with a giant furball blocking the entrance. every time I nibbled on something I had to take a peek at my reflection in case I’d left any debris floating in there. suddenly, I was checking the mirror more times an hour than Joan Collins.
As it grew bushier by the day, I felt more and more self-conscious. One evening, sitting outside a pub, I was fairly sure a table of youths were tittering at me. They probably thought I was one of those eccentrics who wears a trilby and goes dancing at swing music clubs while calling people ‘Daddio’.
It was only toward the end of my little growth experiment that I received my one and only compliment — when a young lad who works in my local shop reacted enthusiastically. ‘It’s wicked. You should keep it, bro,’ he told me.
Thanks old chap, but as soon as I press send on this piece, I’m heading off for an urgent appointment with some soap, hot water and a very sharp razor.