Today I should like to poke my head up from the lumpen folds and clammy crevasses of jowllery, if I may, and journey north on the facial map. Destination: the moss-clad slopes and alpine shrubbery of the upper lip. The lair of the moustache.
I realise that this may leave my armies of jowl-lusty acolytes (by which I mean my pitchfork—wielding mother) feeling betrayed – hooked on the heady opiate of chinly undercarriage and then cast aside at the first glimpse of beer foam effervescing from the fronds of a lustrous tache. Well, I advise them to get over it and I advise this for no fewer than 2 reasons:
1) Though the landscape of the jowl is frequently a rolling acreage on which the sun doesn’t set, its breadth as a muse for high art and commentary is sadly that of a hobbit’s allotment. Thus, though I do it with a heavy heart and though I will always return to my first true love with the howling remorse of the IDIOT who axed Blind Date from prime time TV, this will probably be the first of many deviations from our hallowed home turf.
2) It’s Movember innit.
Yes, Movember. When psychologically prepubescent cads and bounders the length and breadth of our great country make utter dicks of themselves by donning the ill-fitting, charity shop, sub-nasal garb of manhood. The results run the grotesque gamut from the fearsome to the farcical.
Some can, with little more than the time or exertion required to herald a robust bowel movement, force out formidable horseshoes of impenetrable weave. These are the sorts of moustaches that swipe walking sticks from beneath the creaking frames of the elderly and suck in the errant children of incautious mothers. I could’ve sworn I saw one guy’s tache at the gym the other day knocking out bicep curls while its owner sat supine with a fag and copy of Chap Magazine.
Others of us can spend the entire month smoking pipes, watching NASCAR and roaring ribaldries at passing girls from atop a body of shoddily erected scaffolding without ever coaxing the growth of anything more than a timorous slug-trail of silky bum-fluff. The appropriate course of action upon encountering the “Movember Eunuch”, incidentally, is to shout “have some MOUSTACHE with your VAGINA!”, pin them to the nearest wall and have at them with your mighty mo until their face and neck are but a steaming morass of stubble-rash wounds.
It’s for charity.
Sadly, I’m closer to the latter end of the stache spectrum than the former but not quite so close as to earn the face grating opprobrium of my bristled betters. Though looking in the mirror at the end of week 1 did recall Tom Selleck’s withering rebuke of Chandler in Friends episode 2.20 “when puberty hits that thing’s really gonna kick in”. Thankfully by week 2, I had encouraged sufficient upper lip efflorescence to prompt a fellow mo bro to peer askance at me in the mens room mirror and remark “no sex for you this month then”. I took this in the comradely spirit in which I perceived it to have been offered but felt bound to point out that it did not render the state of affairs markedly different from any other month in the year. “Well” he replied with a languid shrug “at least now you’ll have an excuse”. Tache wisdom.
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