ode to a mustache

25/01/2010

My facial hair situation in the year-plus I´ve been here has been a little out of control. I seem to have developed some kind of complex where I feel the need to experiment with aggressive, frequently-changing styles rather than just being happy with shaving once every few days like have since I was about seventeen. I attribute that to two conveniently overlapping phenomena: the early-twenties, post-puberty state where as a guy you realize that you actually can grow something that looks like facial hair, and the fact fact that I live in a town in the middle of nowhere, allowing me to grow anything I want on my face and not really care what I look like or what people think. (Translation: there are virtually no women in my town who I´m even remotely interested in.) This lethal combination resulted in an initial full-beard look, which then gave way to a goatee/buzz-cut combo, and then finally a big, red (yeah, my facial hair is kind of red, which was unexpected), bushy mustache. Throughout these phases of follicular – and yes, spiritual – growth, I´ve been told I looked like the Unabomber, a pedophile, a gay porn star, a ´70s fighter pilot, and Larry Bird. I figured Larry Bird flying an F-15 sounded pretty damn cool, so it was easy to ignore the other ones.

While each phase had its moments, it was definitely the mustache that I sported with the most pride, and therefore rocked the longest (a full six months). It´s unfortunate that my Christmas trip home had to come along during this phase, because if not for that, the ´stash would most definitely still be with us today. I really hadn´t planned on shaving it, and in fact showed it off proudly for the first few days home. But after a few nights out with my buddies, I realized that “Uhh, cool….mustache…?” wasn´t really the response I was looking for when conversing with the first American women I had seen in over a year. I was having enough trouble putting together full English sentences as it was. I´d like to think I´m above what other people think of me, but I guess deep down I´m just not as secure as I would like to think. At least when it comes to mustaches.

Once back in Peru I was lamenting the loss of the ´stash (and this insecurity that I had apparently developed all the sudden) to my buddy Eric, and he offered some good perspective on the topic. It went something like this: “Dude, you can´t expect to confidently rock a ´stash like that if you´re anywhere under forty. Mustache confidence comes with old man strength, and even though we´re considered grown men by now, we definitely don´t have that.” Well put. In any case, I guess I should get around to the point of my writing this, which is to highlight some of the pros and cons of growing an aggressive mustache as a young man, for anyone out there losing sleep over the decision. So here we go:

PROS
- Flavor saver. Scrambled eggs look particularly cool.
- Instant conversation starter, no matter where you go.
- Gives you something to stroke when deep in thought about, say, which donut to go with.
- Makes you look older and therefore gains you more respect (this actually is true, but probably only if you live where I do).
- If you let it grow out for a week or so, it actually gets to the point where you can sort of comb it with your lower lip/tongue, and then trim it with your front teeth. Which gives you something to do when really bored (this level of boredom probably also only applies to my current situation).
- Your buddies will tell you it´s awesome, even if it looks like a chipmunk glued to your upper lip.
- There are few things in this life that make you feel as distinguished as combing and trimming your mustache. After doing so, I would often get the urge to put on my cufflinks, pack a pipe, and go down to the stables to see my polo horses.
- Tom Selleck has one.
- Chicks dig it. Some chicks, that is.

CONS
- Most chicks hate it (see “Uhh…” comment, above).
- Your mother will be one of them. She will hate it. Period.
- Having to check for cling-ons after blowing your nose.
- Mike Ditka has one.

I realize that the pros far outnumber the cons in this analysis. But the final result depends on much more than just numbers. As an individual you have to weight each one according to your own scale of importance. For me, the cons caught me with my defenses down, jaded by the bright lights and blondes of America. But who knows, maybe a couple months here will bring me back to my senses. Sorry, Mom.