A Movember story of why I shaved my 'stache

(581 words)

I foolishly thought I was years beyond altering my appearance to secure the love of a pretty girl.

Wrong. 

And now if I happen to be standing at the bus stop next to anyone wearing an “I’M WITH STUPID” t-shirt, I’ll be without dispute.

What happened is as plain as what’s under the nose on my face.

Yes, I let a girl talk me into shaving my mustache because she swore it would make me appear more handsome.

Amazing I’d fall for that, right?

As if!

But this girl is just so beautiful. She’s sweet. She’s mischievous.

She’s 11.

I believe it will solve a lot of the world’s problems if every little girl wakes up in the morning and goes to bed at night knowing she has her Daddy wrapped right around her little finger.

I think too many wonderful women lack confidence.

The other side of the gender coin is too many men have way too much confidence over meager achievement.

It’s the reason in my talks I never fail to include this truthfulness about the major difference between males and females: “Women look into mirrors and see flaws no one else can detect. Men look into those same mirrors and see perfection … no one else can detect.”

In fact, the essential inspiration for that wisdom is Val and myself. My wife is beautiful but thinks she isn’t.

I think I’m handsome … and I am!

Cappuccino-colored eyes, crooked grin, a manly scar or two. And for 34 years a devil-may-care mustache that reflected my personality; part go to hell, part heaven can wait.

I loved my mustache and would always defend it anytime someone criticized it as being too cheesy or too porno (which, depending on the critic, I choose to view as a compliment).

I always had my mustache’s back — and I mean that in every sense.

But it was different when Lucy said she thought I’d look better without the ‘stache.

“Dad, I think you’ll look much more handsome without it,” she said. “You have such a nice face. You shouldn’t cover so much of it up.” 

I spoil my daughters. Not with money, certainly, of which I have squat. No, I spoil them with affection and attention. Whether they one day lament my indulgences weren’t of a more material bent is a moot point.

I gives what I gots.

So, yeah, at her strategic and persistent urging, I shaved a part of my face I only previously shaved for driver’s license photo ID stunts.

I did it for her.

Shaving the upper lip felt strange, like taking off my pants in public. A decades-old mustache changes the structure of the face by diminishing the lip.

I knew Val would hate it, but with her encouragement I believed Lucy would love it.

So I was dumbfounded by the dismayed look on her face as she climbed off the school bus and saw my shiny new face.

“You look terrible!” she said.

But didn’t you say I’d be even more handsome?

“I was wrong,” she said. “Oh, boy, was I wrong.”

Then she laughed, a cold, cunning laugh. I felt stupid.

Had I been played? Was she testing her skills at manipulating her old man? Had my appearance been a pawn in her game?

I don’t know.

But this I do know: I’m going to think long and hard if a pretty little girl says I’ll look more handsome with a shaved head.

Related …

My half-stached birthday

I shave my beard, Lucy lops her lochs

Movember getting hairy for mustache men

Movember & my magnificent mustache

Sunday Re-Run: Movember & my magnificent mustache

I can’t let Movember pass without re-posting one of my occasional tributes to the hairy ribbon. Writing so often about my facial hairs makes me wonder what I’d write about if I were a woman. I’m guessing breasts. I’d say we may never know, but I remain open-minded about the future and all the crazy twists it can bring so I’ll leave it open to speculation.

This has a link below to my ’11 story about the Aussie origins of Mo-vember.

Enjoy your Sunday!

(730 words)

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 either weren’t so picky or just 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.

Related . . .

• Movember getting hairy for mustache men

• How I look with half a mustache

All about my facial hairs

(719 words)

The barber was concluding my trim when he asked a question no barber’d ever asked me before.

“Do you want me to groom your eyebrows?”

“Why would I want you to do that?”

“So people will be able to distinguish you from common barn animals. You’re starting to sprout strays.”

I hadn’t noticed. I’m so busy cataloguing hairs that are no longer there that I hadn’t detected that my eyebrows seemed to be going through unusual growth spurts, a sort of eyebrow puberty.

I told him to leave them alone.

I’m on to barbers. I know it’s in their self-interest to advise every man with hair that he’ll be more attractive with only a thin fringe up top. Beards? Sure, but nothing scraggly.

Keeping each and every hair short and precise ensures more frequent visits. 

It’s part of the code, I guess, and the reason why no one’s ever seen a shaggy barber.

It’s now my goal to grow eyebrows so thick and luxurious that downpours and noon sunshine will be unable to penetrate the canopy.

It’ll save me a fortune on hats, shades and sunscreen. 

Why I care even a whit about my facial hair is a mystery even to me.

No one else cares. Certainly not my family.

I shaved off my winter beard on Sunday. For years, I’ve begun growing a beard on Halloween and regardless of the forecast shaving it on St. Patrick’s Day. I began doing this routine because I figured it would be fun for our daughters.

I could be their own personal Groundhog Phil. When they’d see my chin free of whiskers, they’d know Spring was just around the corner.

So here’s what happened this year: Nothing.

No one noticed the first day. Or the second. Or the third!

Finally, it dawned on our 6-year-old that a handy tool she used to inflict random pain was missing from my face. She enjoyed giving the beard a quick, cruel yank anytime she’d catch me foolishly dozing in the big easy chair.

Once, just to test the powers of their observation, I shaved the right side of my mustache and the left of my beard and sat through dinner without anyone noticing (you can see a picture at this post).

Finally, I instigated a tickle fest with the little one who was 3 at the time. I got right in her face until she stopped laughing long enough to observe, “Someone took Daddy’s mustache.”

In fact, I’ll die before I let anyone take my mustache.

I’ve spent more time caring for and nurturing it than I have either of our daughters. It’s my first born. Plus, unlike the children, it’s never sassed me or say I embarrass it in front of its mustache friends.

Why would it? My mustache knows I have its back.

These are exciting times for me and my mustache. One of my most distinguishing characteristics is that the right side of my ‘stache is dark, while the left is mostly white.

Many men have what are commonly called salt and pepper mustaches.

I do, too, but my shakers are on opposite sides of the table.

It’s an odd ebony and ivory thing right beneath my nose and I’m eager for pepper to give way to salt. I believe it’ll make me look more distinguished.

Right now I look like one of those vain asses who dyes his mustache, but can’t commit to dying both sides. I guess that means I look half-assed.

What’s ironic is I’m devoting all this attention to my facial hair while the rest of my head hair is succumbing to male pattern baldness.

It’s like an old prison movie where a few flunkies distract the hacks so the gang in Cell Block C can escape over the wall while no one’s looking.

I became aware of this last November when I was in Gettysburg with Josie. It was marvelous bonding time. A friend of ours later sent me a picture that showed Josie from behind with some guy I initially thought was some balding stranger.

Livid, I called the photog and demanded he identify the chrome dome with his arm around my daughter.

Think anyone can persuade me to reveal the sad punchline to this story?

Not by the now shorn hairs on my chinny chin chin.

Related . . .

• Folicular follies

• Movember & my magnificent mustache

Movember & my magnificent mustache

(730 words)

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.

Related . . .

• Movember getting hairy for mustache men

• How I look with half a mustache

Movember getting hairy for mustache men

For a moment I felt like the misfit bully in the AT&T commercials who believes his co-workers are deliberately excluding him from the hall taco party outside Bill’s office.

Then I realized a key difference. He thinks people make fun of him.

As for me, I now know they do. I know this because for the past 15 days they’ve been in my face.

And it’s all because of what’s on my face.

Yes, it’s Movember!

That’s November with a “Mo” to go. Mo is Australian slang for mustache.

Five days ago I’d never heard of Movember, an Australian export that didn’t hit the U.S. until 2007. Now it consumes me.

Movember is doing for November and prostate cancer what pink ribbons did for October and breast cancer.

Organizers have since 2004 raised a whopping $174 million by encouraging every man on the planet to grow a mustache for the month. That’s all. People donate money to men who’ll grow mustaches and the many mos generate awareness.

It’s like a charity 5K for couch potatoes.

They call it the “hairy ribbon.”

It is to me it is one of the most ingenious fundraisers ever conceived. It’s a perfectly manly way to reach men about an area they’re often reluctant to discuss. And I’m not talking about their funny bones.

I did this story about it for msnbc.com after learning Qantas had decorated a terminal building and Boeing 737-800 with really cheesy mustaches style savvy people make fun of.

Apparently like mine.

Adam Garone, one of four co-founders of Movember told me he and his mates were sitting around a Melbourne backyard in 2003 discussing how every fashion recycles. All but one.

In my mind I picture them all there, drunk and very Aussie cool.

“We talked about mustaches and how popular they were in the 1970s and ‘80s,” he said. “But they never came back. We decided to devote the month to growing mustaches, mate.”

(He didn’t say “mate,” but I added it for antipodean color.)

Expecting support, they received scorn.

“Oh, my girlfriend hated it,” he said. “My boss said the mustache made me so ugly he wouldn’t let me go out on sales calls. It was sooo ugly.”

I admit I live a cloistered life, but when did the mustache fall out of favor? When did it become a topic for cool people to ridicule?

Could I have somehow missed an important fashion memo?

I’ve been rockin’ the ‘stache since 1985. I like it because it conceals and distracts numerous other flaws ranging across my face. Without the mustache, people’s eyes might go to the moles, the bloodshot eyes, scars and other mug-ravaging deformities.

I hope one day my mustache grows up and becomes Sam Elliott’s mustache.

What would Mark Twain be without his mustache? How about the over-looked acting genius Burt Reynolds? He had a great ‘stache that matched the color of that black Trans Am that caused Sheriff Buford T. Justice so much manly trouble.

Just about everyone in my bar has thick mustaches -- including half the gals.

Are we that hillbilly backward?

Apparently so. A little research revealed we’re a minority that needs protecting.

That’s where the American Mustache Institute comes in (motto: “Protecting the rights of, and fighting discrimination against mustached Americans by promoting the growth, care and culture of the mustache”).

While I’ve been stationary, I somehow became part of a movement.

So while I fully support Movember and its noble goals I kindly ask they rescind ‘stache bashing as part of their promotions.

Would it be acceptable if the joke was on African-Americans? Bi-sexuals? Chrome domes?

All we mustachioed men ask is to be treated like equals, to get a fair shake, and to have the results of our prostate exams come back clean.

And then maybe we’ll enjoy the fruits of what other minorities, mustachioed and otherwise, have earned.

We’ll be Mo-vin’ on up!