The Coast News Group

What’s behind the ’stache?

Just for the record, I’m currently not wearing a moustache.
If you’ve seen my big dumb face recently, it’s all covered in a furry dark mass.
I’ve grown a beard in spite of myself.
It wasn’t premeditated. Strangely enough, when I don’t drink, I get lazy. I start telling people that I’m growing a beard on purpose and not because I’m actually just too slothful to just run those five fanciful blades over my face.
So then I actually I have to grow one.
I just want to point out that I really don’t have any ill feelings toward those who oppose using a razor. I myself on numerous occasions have grown more than my fair share of crappy beards, silly moustaches and idiotic goatees.
To prove a point, my dad has sported a beard since 1965. That’s right folks, I’ve never seen the skin on my father’s face. Granted, it’s not a Luke/Darth Vader type of admission, but come on people! My dad’s been going Wookie since before I was born. Cut me some damn slack.
But this isn’t about me, or my family’s proclivities toward facial emanations. It’s about you. And your stupid moustache.
Hello, sir. Since no one’s clued you in yet, I’d love to help out. You, sir, are a hipster doofus. Your sagging, stoic uniform of tight black pants and attempt at thrift store chic isn’t working.
Besides a few two-wheeled scamps known as the Moustache Marauders, your wistful efforts to pretend you are above baleful contrivances like a job or a thought toward a life less likely aren’t alleviated by not shaving that bush below your nose.
We all fight the system with the ammunition we see fit to make change, therefore making our personality stand out without being pedestaled.
My parents protested, wore tie-dye and pretended to like Led Zeppelin and Strawberry Alarm Clock.
I did it with a guitar, blue hair and throwing up in various countries. Or on myself.
You grow your hair into your eyes and pretend like Morrissey was a relevant form of self-help depression therapy. You fail to realize that when Mr. Emo was writing crybaby lyrics, you were still playing with blue Play-Doh.
I’m sorry to have to type this into my laptop and ruin your day. Actually, I hope it doesn’t. I hope you’re choking down your Fernet with a Black and Tan, when in reality you’d really rather just be at home watching crappy television. It’s OK to admit that even though you try so hard to be cool by being uncool, it’s not working.
Growing a moustache doesn’t make you punk rock, my friend. It’s just another silly mask we slather on to try to make us different from everyone else. In reality, it just makes you unable to shave without losing your identity.
But sideburns. Yeah, now sideburns are way cool. Spiffy even.