When you’re too lazy to bother shaving.
I haven’t shaved in weeks. My face looks like a cat’s lounging pillow. Wispy, errant, and sparse.
I cannot grow facial hair the way most men grow facial hair.
My cheeks are patchy – two tufts of steel wool, the color of a doormouse.
My moustache is a downy wisp of a thing, barely there. A smear of meringue.
And yet, the longer I wait and more I edit (I’ve since jettisoned the cheekpuffs, leaving only the moustache and everpresent tuft of chin scruff), the prouder I become.
I used to roll my eyes at those baroquely moustachioed man-chaps… and with good reason, sure. It takes a certain kind of twerp to wear a 19th century moustache while talking on an iPhone. All those tiresome hipsterettes with their twee little moustache tattoos on their fingerside. Enough, I say. Enough.
But the longer I wait… the more I see.
My moustache… it’s growing fuller. Broader. I’ve never let it get so big before. So many Movembers and Moustache Marches I’ve sat by, soft-faced and sidelined. But now I see it, growing darker, potent, and powerful.
What I wouldn’t give for the chance to wear an even fuller beard:
A knotted viking’s warrior braid.
Or the conical stalactite of a Pharoh.
The Rabbi’s tetragrammatonic pour.
A Marxian riot of ashen whiskers.
O! So many me’s I’ll never get to be…