the stashe

how can something be as ridiculous as a mustache? it escapes me why anyone would want to sculpt their facial hair into a small hemisphere above their upper lip. kids find them somewhat scary. villains in westerns always had them. adolescent boys see them as a mark of manhood that they are yet unable to display.

 

and yet i have one. but not for long.

 

since christmas i have been growing this monstrosity. trimming it occasionally so that the tough little hairs don't curl under my upper lip. all the guys at work grew them. it was a common bond... kind of a *gag* fraternity thing. the spectrum of mustaches that grew over the first four months of this year was spectacular. everything from full-blown butcher's mustaches, to the borat-stache, to cat whiskers. one guy's is blonde and very fair haired, to the point that it is almost invisible in a photograph, but he perseveres.

 

the time has come to cast off these ego bearing follicles. to bare my upperlip to the world in all it's naked glory. to shave where no blade has shaved since christmas... the mustache must go.

 

i must say that i will miss it. over time, it has worked it's way into my life and even into my mannerisms. the mustache is stroked unconsciously when i cook up mischievous plans. the mustache filters and savors the most delectable soups and drinks. the mustache makes me look kind of angry, which at work is a most fantastic side effect... the best way to avoid line-of-sight taskings is to walk fast, seem busy, and look angry. with the mustache, all i have to do is walk fast and look busy, the rest is done automatically.

 

i'm actually afraid to shave it though. as if it has it's own life energy. what would happen if i shaved it off and all the little whiskerbits reassembled themselves in the drain into a sort of frankenstashe that would crawl up the drain at night in search of my upper lip?

 

that could be bad. maybe i'll shave it tomorrow instead