When you’re too lazy to bother shaving.
I haven’t shaved in weeks… and as a result, my face has metamorphosed into a pockety landscape, reminiscent of my cat’s lounging pillow.
I cannot grow facial hair the way most men grow facial hair.
My cheeks are patchy and errant, two tufts of steel wool, the color of a doormouse.
My moustache is a downy wisp of a thing, barely there. A 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 this 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 option to wear a fuller beard:
A flowing viking warrior braid.
Or the Pharaoh’s conical stalactite.
The Rabbi’s tetragrammatonic pour.
O! So many mes I’ll never get to be…