Mustache

I was in a bad mood, which was unusual - or at least, unusually bad. And on the bus they were transit officers checking fare-cards, which is more than unusual - it’s unheard of. Never before has this happened, in the history of my riding the 99 B-line, so I was flustered, and embarrassed, and spent five minutes digging in my purse before I found my monthly pass.

The transit officer was patient and understanding - a latino man in his mid thirties, he smiled kindly as I stammered my way towards my seat. But then a flood of annoyance hit me, coupled with a sugar low and a desperate desire to be wrapped in the warmth of my puppies, which this stupid fare-checking had almost kept me from.

Seriously, though...who the hell does that man think he is, wearing that mustache?

The man’s mustache was flowing and long, extending from the farthest reaches of his nostrils and engulfing most of his lower lip. The volume was significant, and he’d obviously put effort into keeping it healthy and clean - the dark black hair had a lustre to it and was free of any debris. Still, it reminded me of pubic hair - overflowing, tumescent pubic hair. Mustaches always remind me of this, which I guess is my central problem with them.

And I tried to think, well, he’s foreign. It’s kind of charming and endearing, how entirely out of touch with local fashions he must be? But no. The man spoke perfect English. His gainful employment as a transit officer kept me from excusing his mustache as an awareness deficiency. He obviously knew.

(It was at this point I realized that a significant parental figure from my past, who turned out to be a child molester, also had a giant mustache, and that was probably affecting my judgement on the matter. I’ll try to keep my irrational anger in check.)

Because...I don’t HATE all mustaches. Jack Layton, I respect, with a wise old-man mustache that I can certainly get behind. Tom Selleck, also, a rocker of the mustache (also kind of attractive, though I’m pretty sure that’s in spite of the facial hair). You see, there are many different types of mustache. There’s Friendly Cultural Stereotype Mustache that reminds me of Mario and Luigi, which is always accompanied by terribly broken english, and an excessive amount of smiling. How can you hate a mustache like that? And the Older Gentleman Mustache (employed by aforementioned Jack Layton), where the man in question is well aware that his look has fallen out of fashion but, dangnammit, knows that respectable men of his day kept their bootstraps fastened and wore sweater vests and had giant, face-engulfing mustaches, and that’s just what he’s going to do. (Bonus points to the gentlemen who find the time to wax their mustache-edges into curlicue tips, making them look like a cartoon villain. Bravo, good sirs...You are amazing in so many ways.)

And of course there’s the porn-stash, which I do find offensive, and sexist, and terrible in so many ways. I know that it’s somewhat inflammatory to claim that the appearance of the opposite sex is offensive to me (in the way that a porn-stash man might claim that breast reductions are to him ‘offensive’). But...come on. For such beer-bellied men, in their stained, yellowed shirts, the food-stuttered mustache is a crescendo of a look that says, “I do not care.”

“I do not care,” and “I will not put one ounce of effort into looking like anything but a repulsive turd, because any such effort would make me,” *scoff with abhorence* “a woman.” And such porn-stashed men are often featured, in certain risque films, where the fantasy of beautiful women sleeping with repulsive men is created for the benefit of slovenly males, everywhere. Is this degrading to women? Yes, yes it is. But the concept of the porn-stashed man...it’s degrading to men, too. Outside of the realm of porn, such men are often found, eating a melting cone of ice cream, masturbating on a park bench to the local high school’s coed track team.

And that, I suppose, is the end of my psychological analysis of the mustache. I still do not have any idea what that transit officer thought he was doing, nor do I particularly care...a mustache like that has no excuse. And the moral of my story is only this: Please, good men of the world, and women, too....Unless you're Tom Selleck, or Jack Layton, or Mario or Luigi, or a twee older gent from a simler time...If you’re capable of growing a mustache, for the love of baby Jesus, just please, please don’t.

Ironic mutton chops are encouraged, as are villainous goatees.

Thank you.