Over the Halloween weekend I shaved my hard-earned beard in order to display a surprisingly robust and courageously solo mustache. I’ve always wanted a mustache, or at least I’ve always wanted the ability to grow one, even since I was a kid. This was a big weekend for me.
My Halloween costume was Freddie Mercury. I got the idea from the last time I tried to sport a mustache unaccompanied by a beard, because many told me I looked liked Freddie Mercury. The resemblance is pretty uncanny, especially when I’m in costume (white pants, white shoes, white tank top, and a red woman’s sports coat from the Salvation Army, confidence). When I’m not in costume, however, I was identified as many other things, and received other sorts of unsolicited feedback.
Here’s what some people said I about me and my mustache:
“You can finally grow the mustache your dad grew at age 19.” (That was from my mother, by the way.)
“You look like weird Hall & Oats!” (I don’t know what that means…I look like both of them together? Are they not already weird?)
“[Your mustache] looks like a caterpillar too fat and lethargic to ever become a butterfly.”
“You look like 1920’s-era Hemingway with muscular dystrophy.” (Cruel and literary—I like it.)
“You look like you’re a wife-beater away from being an actual wife beater.”
“It looks, not like you applied an artificial mustache to your face, but that you actually grew an artificial mustache.”
“Your mustache looks like it just learned to play ‘Night Moves’ on guitar.”
“You look like either the biggest hipster possible, or someone who thinks talking about cars is cool.”
“You look like a porn star that has never had sex.”
So I have now shaved my mustache. Maybe someday it’ll grow on others the way it grew on me.