The Chronicles of Moustache: Day 1

Fact 1: I own a moustache.

Fact 2: I’m wearing it now.

Why?

Well. The short answer, if there is one, is I thought it would be good for a cheap laugh.*

The long answer is a much more disturbing journey to the centre of my being. That centre is not fit for human visits as it is a rumbling volcano or raging insecurities and half baked philosophies. Besides, my being? It’s all I am. To give that away would be to give away myself. Trust me, you don’t want that.

So, if it’s alright, I think I will stick to the medium answer.

I’ve always fashioned myself as something of an observer. If we are hanging out, enjoying some cool beverages, and you think you were sneaky enough to conceal the fact you just picked your nose. You weren’t. I saw it. If I’m walking down the street and I see some crazy fucker walking an imaginary dog, I’m also watching the drug dealer on the corner with the black hat and silver shining rims who probably goes by the name of Shifty Sam (I should probably move to a better neighbourhood). If you shift slightly in the elevator I will assume you just farted and pray to whatever higher power might exist that my floor comes soon.

You get the point.

Something is missing though. I’m never a part of these observations. If I wasn’t there, noses would still be picked, Shifty Sam would still peddle coke to wherever had the cash. If live were a math equation I would the test pen scribble on the side of the page.

So naturally I grew a gross moustache in an effort to connect with human kind. To become a part of the process.

My pledge

For one week I will wear this moustache like a badge of honour. I will not try to hide it in my scarf, cover it with my hand, nor will I tell anyone that I lost a bet. No. For one week this moustache will be as vital to me as my arms or my legs or my – well, use your imagination. And while I proudly display my badge I will record and collect responses to it. I will become part of the observation, not just a part of the process. I will note anything moustache related; whether it be hurtful or harmful.

It is to be a grand experiment dealing with issues of self-confidence, judgement, and probably some other things too.

That’s the medium answer. Or, to save time, you can just say the short answer** to the medium answer is “I have way too many stupid thoughts.”

Great, but why a moustache?

It’s because moustaches are fucking weird. Anyone not named Super Mario shouldn’t have one.

The First Day

I woke up, having shaved the night before, up with nothing on my face but a moustache and a grimace. Not sure if I could go through with it I wrestled with the thought of grabbing my dying beard trimmer and putting the moustache out of its misery. The moustache won and I left my apartment with the sure knowledge that the day would be awful. Exciting my building I felt like a spy, hiding behind pillars and dodging cameras, on his first assignment.

The bus ride and beginning of class was the worst for the self doubt. I could all but feel the ridicule piling up as fellow students piled into the room.

To my shock, and surprising disappointment, I didn’t get the awful reaction I hoped for. Megan told me I look good, Jake pet it, Craig saluted me, Jared called me sexy, which given the context, I thought was weird. Only Charlotte said she didn’t like it after I asked her.

However, these jerks***? They all know me. People who know people don’t tell the people they know the truth. It’s a social faux-pas. Everyone knows that. So these reactions I can’t take to heart. I’m sure everyone hates it, except Charlotte, who is probably thinking about how good it looks even now, almost 12 hours into the future. I had to get reactions from strangers.

Here is what I found:

An older security guard with a moustache looked at mine with eyes full of superiority. I don’t blame him. He had a much finer moustache. My eyes probably gleamed green with envy.

A pretty girl at the food court locked eyes with my moustache. I’m 83.7% certain I might have maybe seen her mouth “ewwwwwww” as I walked past. Another girl I will never go on a date with.

A mother with a small child in a new stroller sat as far away from me as possible on the bus. In her defense, I was at the back of the bus and everyone knows strollers fit best at the front. This one could have been a coincidence. One can never be sure.

At the metro station two young metal heads with spiked bracelets and black mascara looked at me as if I was the crackhead digging in the garbage; drinking from discarded chocolate milk cartons. I told them real men grow moustaches they don’t put on makeup. After I managed to crawl out of the garbage container (the crackhead helped, turns out he is a really nice guy, we have set a date to go for some sushi) I decided it probably isn’t wise to try to defend the moustache. Just accept my fate as a moustache owner and welcome the menacing thoughts about my person.

The moral of the story? Young metal heads are the worst. Oh, and wearing a moustache still freaks me out.

I can’t wait for day 2.

*A Video of me and my moustache playing accordion and answering questions
**Not to be confused with the first short answer
***Sorry guys