The Mustache
“I wish you would shave that hideous thing. It’s taking over your face. I can’t stand it!”
Karen had been nothing but vocal about Hank’s new mustache and the conflict was finally coming to its climax. He didn’t want to fight about this anymore. It was his face, why couldn’t he decorate it as he pleased? The whole thing was ridiculous. A nice handlebar mustache is more than attractive. It’s classy, borderline regal. How could she not understand?
“Why can’t you understand?” He pleaded, “This is who I am now.”
“A coal miner? No. I didn’t marry Dapper Dan, and I have no intention of letting that horrible mess near my face. Cut it off or I cut you off.”
An ultimatum. He hadn’t prepared for this. The assumption was several more weeks of bickering followed by begrudging acceptance. That plan was right out the window. The choice was between his mustache and his wife.
“I’ll have to think about this.” With that he sulked out of the room, leaving his wife alone with her gaping mouth.
Later that night, at the bar, Hank’s friend Tim was sympathetic to his cause. “Hey man, that’s rough. You look good in that thing, like… real good,” he said mainly to his beer. “If you were single like me, it would net you all kinds of trim. Ladies love a well groomed face. Shows principle.”
Hank shrugged as he pinched one of the curls as he’d grown accustomed to when he was thinking. The mustache wasn’t something he had planned. It had grown in over a single night. When Hank discovered it in the morning, he was resistant to the idea. But after some grooming and waxing and combing and just a little bit off Allspice, he had before him a work of art. It curled just right at the very ends. When pulled it sprang right back into shape. If God had a mustache, surely this is what it must have been like. He decided to keep it.
Hank’s wife had long since left for work before he emerged from the bathroom, so her opinion on the matter was delayed until dinner. His coworkers, on the other hand, were quick to remark. “Nice lip-cozy, Hank!” “Love the new look, chap,” and from the boss, “Now that’s the face of an up and comer.” Even the secretary gave him a little wink. Yes sir, the world was much brighter through his whisker covered glasses, except for the dark clouds storming at home.
The decision to remove his precious new friend was not eased by the bartender’s offer of a free drink for “such a fancy young lad.” Earthly pleasures aside, he loved his wife and knew in his heart that he should respect her objection. Besides, a few hairs and a better outlook on life where nowhere near worth the forced abstinence that was to be thrust upon him.
“I guess that’s it,” he mumbled, “It’s been a fun ride, but the wife comes first.”
Tim patted him on the back. “You’re a good man.” An idea popped into his booze-addled mind. “Hey, I know! Why don’t you let me take it off your hands?”
This raised Hank’s spirit a bit. “Really? You mean it?”
“Sure. I’ll give it a good home. I’ll take it out for walks, pick up chicks. It’ll be great.”
“Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me.” He sobbed a little bit. This was a tough moment.
Tim reassured him with a pat on the back. The whiskers tingled as they sprouted from his lip, and in an instant it was over. One man had lost everything and another had gained the world. The Earth kept on spinning.
Hank rubbed his newly bald face. “I should get home. Susan’s probably worried I ran off to Mexico with the thing. I’ll see you later.”
“Later man. Good luck.”
Tim stayed at the bar a while longer, sipping on Southern Comfort and stroking his new acquisition. It was heavier than he expected and pleasantly warm. When he scrunched up his lip it tickled his nose. With little regard for his fellow patrons, he contorted his face in the mirror like a child in Halloween makeup. Then he spotted her.
A gorgeous blonde at a table behind him was watching his less than manly display, quietly amused. When he turned for a better look, she smiled. Before Tim could wipe the ridiculous look off his face, she was up and heading for the door. He rushed to intercept, barely avoiding a head on collision at the front door. He attempted nonchalance.
Tim tried to accentuate the mustache as he said, “Leaving so soon? The night is young.”
She either had a thing for southern dandies or child molesters because she responded positively. “I have to meet a friend in a couple minutes. But if you want, you can buy me a drink tomorrow night. How’s that sound?”
Tim gave his best 70’s porno smile. ” Same time, same place?”
She nodded with an mm-hmm and touched his lip with her finger. “Love what you’ve got going on up here, by the way.” And she was gone, slipped out the door with the feminine grace of a jungle cat, or high class stripper.
He fought to catch his breath. It worked! Only 20 minutes had passed and already women were flocking to him. He had hit the jackpot. To celebrate he bought a round for everyone at the bar.
A few seats down, a hipster in a vest and sports coat was writing poetry in a leather bound pocket notebook. At least he had been until he’d overheard the transaction between Hank and Tim. You see, the hipster had a terrible secret, known only to his closest friends. For he had never wanted to be a hipster at all. His greatest aspiration was to become a Steamadore, a member of the super secret steampunk club for men. He had the attitude, the desire, even the wardrobe. He was missing but one thing. The Steamadore bi-laws dictate that every member must be in the possession of at least one fancy beard. To the hipster’s shame, he was unable to grow one of his own. Every attempt came out patchy and weak. He had nearly given up hope, but after witnessing Tim’s acquisition, his mind was alight. What had started as a poem about tandem bicycles quickly degraded into mustache doodles.
He maintained the writing facade, but his attention remained on Tim. He was fairly drunk at this point and the hipster knew he wouldn’t have to wait long. There! Tim was up and stumbling towards the bathroom. The hipster pocketed his book and followed him. He kept an eye on the bar. Nobody expected a thing. He slipped in behind Tim.
He emerged quickly, triumphant in his quest. He was transformed from lowly hipster into a dashing gentleman. He scurried out of the bar, avoiding attention as best he could. He had to get home quickly, before anyone realized what he had done.
When he arrived home, the gentleman locked the front door, barricading it with a chair for good measure. The shades were quickly drawn. He rushed to the bathroom, locking that door as well. The time had come to inspect his prize. It looked out of place on his young visage. That didn’t matter. It was finally his. He set to work combing it. The rest of the night was spent on the bathroom floor, partly out of fear of other mustache thieves, and partly from alcohol consumption. He slept until the following afternoon.
Upon waking, the gentleman sprang to work. Everything had to be just right if he wanted entrance into the Steamadores. In the shower he was extremely careful while washing his face. Soap is a poor choice for good hair care. Instead he gently massaged and conditioned, rinsed and repeated with the care one normally reserves for bathing the head of a small child. When he was done, he combed and waxed it into the perfect shape. Soft, yet firm. To compliment the look, he donned his finest tweed suit and practically new bowler along with his favorite monocle.
All that remained was a call to the club’s secret number. He held his breath as he dialed. It was ringing. Even the tone sounded refined and old-timey.
A soft male voice answered the phone.”Thadeus Bluff’s Barbershop and Tobaccotorium, how may I be of service.”
The gentleman recited from memory, “I’d like to make an appointment for a trim in the Victorian style, followed by a cup of the good Earl Grey.”
“Shall we reserve a chair up front, sir?”
“The back will do fine.”
“Four o’clock, come prepared.”
Click.
The gentleman checked his pocket watch. It was already so late! He had almost forgotten about the written essay. It was bound to be in one of the drawers. He tore his apartment to pieces to be ready in time.
The train there was crowded, mostly by high school students on their way home. He had hoped to study a little more for the forthcoming oral exam, but there simply wasn’t enough room. A couple teenage boys laughed at his outfit. The girls whispered. He was too nervous to notice.
What the gentleman also failed to notice, as he bumped his way towards the exit, was that somewhere along the way he had lost the mustache. By the time he felt the tingling sensation, the train door had already closed behind him. He could do nothing but watch as a pretty young girl, with a handsome mustache, rolled quickly down the track.
Katy was having a good day so far. A+ on the geometry test, three day weekend ahead, and she had managed to catch the same train as Trevor. She tried to be casual about it, stealing glances when she thought he wasn’t looking, inching closer every time a new set of passengers boarded or left. Now he was looking right at her, she could feel it. She turned to make sure. Yep, definitely looking at her, even smiling. When their eyes met, he started laughing, covering his mouth in a vain attempt to conceal his amusement. His friend grimaced as well.
Katy had no clue what could possibly be so funny. She thought it might be something behind her. What she found there was only her own reflection in the window. Somehow she had spontaneously grown the most dashing handlebar mustache she had ever seen in her life. On anybody else it would have been the envy of every boy at school. On her it was a tragedy.
At the next stop she shoved her way off the train and up to the street. She was twenty blocks from home and ran the whole way there. She considered throwing her backpack over her head, but that would have been too dangerous. The embarrassment wasn’t enough to risk being hit by a car. Almost, but not quite.
At home she immediately locked herself in her room and refused to open the door. When she didn’t come down for dinner, her parents worried. When she didn’t come out all weekend, they made a decision. The same decision every wealthy family from the upper west side makes when their children have a problem. They called a psychiatrist.
Three hours was how long it took for Dr. Sanders to convince Katy to let him into her room. He had to explain several times that, as a doctor, whatever she revealed to him would be held in the utmost confidence. He would never do anything to embarrass her, so she could be perfectly honest with him about her problems. She finally relented.
He found her room in shambles. All of the mirrors had been shattered and the shards had all been flipped over and swept into a corner. The floor was littered with clothes. Barely any were still hung in the closet. Katy locked the door behind him. Her face was tightly wrapped with an army of scarves.
Her voice was muffled by all the layers, “I’ve tried every outfit. Nothing I wear makes this look good.”
The doctor cleared some coats off a chair and sat down. He rested a clipboard on his lap. He spoke reassuringly, “Katherine, it seems to me that you’re having an identity crises. What do you think may have set this off?”
She frowned. At least her eyebrows did. “I’m hideous.”
“Now that’s simply not true.”
“I look like a man”
“From what I remember, you have quite a feminine face. What happened that brought up this attitude about yourself?”
“I was on the train with Trevor.”
He wrote something in his notes. “How do you feel about this Trevor.”
The area just above Katy’s makeshift shawl turned bright red. “It doesn’t matter. Not after what happened.”
“Did he say something?”
“No… he just laughed.”
“Because you told him how you felt about him?”
She gasped, “I could never do that!”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t, especially not now. I can’t even leave my room anymore, it’s too embarrassing.”
Doctor Sanders crossed his legs and clasped his hands together. “Your problem, Katherine, is that you fear the unknown. You must accept who you are, regardless of what others may think. If you believe that you’re not worthy of Trevor’s affection, you never will be. The first step is to admit your own feelings for him.”
She squirmed at the thought, pulling her bedsheets up to her chest.
The doctor continued, “You can start by telling me. It will make you feel better, I promise.”
Her voice was tiny, unsure. “I like him…”
“Whom?”
“Trevor.”
“Louder.”
“I like Trevor!” She put her hands to her mouth, surprised at how loud she had said it.
“Good. Isn’t that a load off your chest?”
“I guess so.”
“Now let’s get those scarves off and take a trip outside.”
She gasped, “No! It’s too much.”
“Nonsense, take them off and let me see what all the fuss is about.”
“Fine, but I warned you.”
One by one Katy unwrapped each scarf, letting them fall to a pile on the floor. What she uncovered was the perfectly normal face of a teenage girl, albeit three days unshowered. She waited for the doctor to recoil in horror. Instead he picked up a mirror shard and held it out to her.
“You look perfectly fine, see for yourself.”
She couldn’t believe what she saw. She felt her face just to be sure. Nothing, not even peach fuzz. She practically tackled the doctor, thanking him for all he had done. She didn’t even notice the tickling at her ear.
Hearing the commotion, her parents rushed to the room. The door was thrown open and there was much rejoicing, though nobody was entirely sure what the problem had been in the first place. The important thing was their daughter had given up on being a shut-in. The doctor shook Katy’s father’s hand and informed him that his bill would arrive in the mail shortly. He made his leave, oblivious to the strange looks he garnered from both parents.
When he got home, Dr. Sanders found a surprise waiting for him in his own bathroom mirror. At some point during the day he had grown a particularly impressive addition to his upper lip. How peculiar. It seemed to be waxed and everything.
“Now this won’t do at all,” was all he said before drawing a razor and cream from the mirrored cabinet.
