Mow Job

Today, we will learn the hirsute history of the mustache, which is: From Monkey to Mustache: the Back-to-square-one History of Man. In short, having one is a bad idea. 

Or is it?

Isn't the vast numbers of mustachioed villains (Hitler), clowns (Chaplin), dictators (Saddam), comical detectives (Poirot), creepy artists (Dali) et al enough proof that having one will only bring third-party ridicule and first-party itch?

Apparently not. Middle-eastern and South Asian men in Singapore, for example, go around scaring the living crap out of the less-hirsute Chinese with their thick mustaches. "He looks like Saddam," is one oft-quoted comment I have heard. Hey, once is once too many, and counts as "often." 

So in summary, I was going to submit this vast body of scientific evidence to make my case against the mustache.

Then I learned of "Movember," which is a movement that appeals greatly to me in the sense that it puts the fear of the proctologist in every man. That's right, it is a campaign to create awareness, and I think raise money, for male illnesses like prostate cancer. Women get a cute pink ribbon campaign, we go pick a fucking mustache.

Anyway, as I live life on a lark, I decided to give it a go. Immediate social pariah-hood ensued. Family members applied for restraining orders; colleagues tried to push me down elevator shafts; I suspect arsenic in my salad dressing at the regular place; entire train carriages and buses opened up for me, as if I was Moses in the Red Sea. I was in the depths of despair, shamed and shameful.

Then I landed up in India and everything changed. "You look wiser," said a learned economist, who in all the time I have known him, has sported a thick beard. Taxi drivers appeared to think very hard before inflating my fare. I stared down countless uniformed security guards who may actually be robots programmed to annoy entrants into office buildings by asking "Where are you going?" And most heartwarming of all, the female species seemed to smell blood, or pheromones, or something. Score! I have had to lock myself in my hotel room for fear that wild females may start behaving lasciviously with my mustache. Life is tough, in a good way. I finally, almost see the value of having what looks like a dead caterpillar stuck above my upper lip.

Unfortunately, very shortly, I will leave India, entering a plane where no doubt I will immediately be pounced upon by the air-marshal and handcuffed for looking like a terrorist. I suppose therefore I have to bid farewell to my itchy growth.

Which brings me to one of my most memorable moments: a warm, lathered shave from the sharp end of a cutthroat at a corner barbershop in Kars, the Kurdish corner of Turkey, one fine afternoon a couple of years ago. Now *that*, ladies, is what a man wants, not a sissy "facial" in a "spa." So for your husband's next birthday, don't give him a tie, take him to a fancy barber or get him something from the Art of Shaving. And follow it up with a surprise visit to the proctologist. He will appreciate it as soon as he regains the feeling in his...

And if you do not have a husband, I am available for the next half hour. Hurry, limited time offer only!