I’d like to say a word about mustaches today, because I don’t understand this mustache craze. I don’t understand the fake mustaches. I don’t understand the tiny tattooed index finger mustaches that allow anyone with $40 and an ID stating they’re of legal age to have a permanent instant mustache that they can easily hide if they flash a Vulcan live-long-and-prosper geek gang sign. I don’t understand this company having a whole collection of mustache products, but am especially baffled as to why anyone would want mustache-shaped sandwiches. I don’t understand why Aaron Rodgers and the rest of his Packer buddies are sporting ‘staches c.1972 (as the caption reads) on the cover of ESPN The Magazine, unless it’s cultural assimilation, because I grew up in Wisconsin; you still see a lot of mustaches in that part of the world. Every coach on the Packer bench looks like he could be one of my uncles. Ditto Da Bears.
When I think of a mustache, I think of my dad. He has had a mustache for pretty much the entirety of my 40 years. I remember one night when I was little walking out into the bathroom, where moments before my father had, unbeknownst to me, shaved off the mustache he’d had as long as I could remember. I couldn’t figure out why my Uncle Tony was in my bathroom, until the situation was explained to me. And he had a full beard for awhile around the time I was in second grade, because he has it in my first communion pictures (along with a stylin’ red suit that was the height of chic in 1979). But otherwise, he’s had a mustache. And I’m good with that. My dad looks good in a mustache; he is my dad with a mustache. I wouldn’t recognize him otherwise.
As far as I’m concerned, my dad can have a mustache. Men my dad’s age or older can have a mustache. Tom Selleck can have a mustache. That’s it.
No, seriously, that’s it. Mustaches belong to different times, or, if I’m feeling generous, different cultures. But in modern-day America, I just don’t understand mustaches on young men. And women, for that matter. Especially the ornate ones. It’s not that I’m anti-facial-hair. I’m a big fan of beards, and a devotee of the goatee, and I swoon for scruff. It’s really just mustaches that bug me; and the more ironic they are, the more I hate them.
And I don’t know why. And nobody should care that I don’t care for mustaches, theirs or on principle, because I’m totally committed to body autonomy, and people doing whatever the hell they want with their bodies. So it’s more than a little ridiculous that I have an opinion, nay, a STANCE on the modern mustache. It’s purely a preference that I suppose stems from having been cognizant of the ’70s while they were happening around me, and probably a natural aversion to finding attractive men who look too much like my dad.
Don’t mind me. I’m just being unreasonable.