Chances are as you’re sitting there reading this on your computer or smartphone, I’m standing in some brightly lit bathroom admiring the reflection of my mustache in the mirror.
It’s magnificent. It’s salt ‘n’ pepper. It’s unruly. It’s better than Tom Selleck’s.
It’s a sad fact of life that as men age our mustaches become more splendid even as the faces to which they are attached continue their inexorable march to hell.
You may not know it, but we are nearing the end of the month of the mustache.
Yes, there’s only two more shopping days in Movember.
Movember is an Aussie import -- “mo” is Aussie slang for mustache -- that grew out of some friends seeking a playful way to call attention to prostrate cancer awareness.
If it seemed like a bigger deal last year it might be because greedy NHL owners are locking out greedy NHL players.
Hockey players had really embraced Movember. At least half of the players grew really cheesy mustaches that had people wondering if hockey players were moonlighting as porn stars.
They wish, I’m sure.
Just hearing about uncomfortable things like prostrate exams makes the butt cheeks of most men tighten right up -- and when you’re talking about prostrate exams nothing could be more counter-productive.
But I like Movember more for its focus on facial hair.
I’ve been tending a mustache ever since I was about 20.
I shaved it once when it was still a toddler, maybe 3 years old.
My late father hated it and challenged me to a round of golf. If I lost, I’d shave; if he lost, he’d grow one.
Dad played that day like Arnold Palmer without all the dignity and scruples. He was a terrible golfer, but a very skilled cheater.
“I golf for my health,” he’d say, “and I feel better when I can tell people I shot a good score.”
I had to admit his logic was impeccable.
My efforts to bust him kicking the ball to a better position distracted my otherwise superior game. He kicked the part of me doctors need to access when they’re checking my prostrate.
So I shaved and immediately resumed growing it back. I had for the next 10 years what could be called a spite mustache.
I could give my father the finger simply by smiling at him.
But he was right. It was a terrible mustache. Had zero character.
So now my mustache is about 25. It could walk into a bar by itself and not have to worry about getting carded.
I haven’t grown up, but it has.
And we’re very close. It understands I’ll always have its back.
It has character, depth, and it’s now superior to Tom Selleck’s.
Selleck played a key role mustache history. He was one of the world’s most handsome men in the ‘90s. And everyone loved him, the girls because he was sexy and men because he was a real guy’s guy. “Magnum, P.I.” still holds up.
I always admire anyone who is both beautiful and funny, or beautiful and smart, especially women because if you’re beautiful you don’t have to be anything else.
In fact, you jeopardize your beauty simply by opening your mouth.
My brother was taller and more appealing to the babes than me. When he grew his mustache everyone said he looked like Magnum.
They said I looked like I didn’t get enough sleep.
Growing the mustache didn’t change any of that. So I gravitated to bars where it was dark and the girls weren’t so picky or too drunk to care.
I was thinking about all this when I saw an ad for Selleck’s show “Blue Bloods.”
He’s really gone to hell, hasn’t he? What happened to him? He looks like such a mope.
He used to be so cheerful and funny. I haven’t heard anyone say, “Man, you have to watch ‘Blue Bloods.’ Selleck’s still got it.”
You know what I think happened?
He betrayed his mustache. He trimmed it to surface whiskers and put paint on the stubble. Clearly, he’s dying his hair. That’s disgraceful.
I vow to never dye my mustache or do anything to depress its joyful individuality.
I do this because I know it could get even with me the way Selleck’s is getting even with him.
And I don’t want to do anything to risk losing my mo-jo.
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