I am.
The Moustache.
You thought I was gone – like that time after the War of 1812. And that time after Studio 64. And that time after Disco. But for once your husband is right. The Fuzzy Facial Caterpillar is renaissancing. Upper-Lip Astroturf has never been so sexy as it is now.
Your grandmother knows this.
The firemen of Engine #12 know this.
Hulk Hogan stakes his life on this.
When you have a moustache, you’re saying: ”I’m not a terrorist, I’m a MAN. A man who goes fly-fishing in Montana and baits his tackle with STETSON COLOGNE and BEEF JERKEY.”
(You could also be saying: ”I’m a WOMAN who refuses to bleach or shave. A woman who DJ’S at the local club and owns a DOG named FRIEDA KHALO.”)
I am The Thin Black Line. I am Backwoodsman Bob. I am The Handlebar, The Monkey Bar, Fu Manchu, Pencil and Walrus.
Even the American Indians acknowledge that you don’t need a dream catcher above your bed, you need a food catcher above your lip. The Moustache will save you that last morsel of meatloaf AND will let the world know you hit puberty.
You might give your significant other 3rd degree facial lacerations, but nothing says ‘I love you’ better than Lip-To-Brillo-Pad action. Every man since the dawn of time knows this: cave women gravitated to the Neanderthal with the biggest bristles (“Dag, your Mammoth is so Woolly!”); chicks dug it during the Civil War (“Colonel Custer, your artillery is firing from both handlebars!”); and no gal this side of the Pecos could resist The Earp (“Wyatt, your West is so Wild!”).
And today? Today I bring more DIMENSION to the game.
When you ‘Stache it up in 2012, people will look at you and think, “That guy subscribes to Martha Stewart Living AND he owns a firearm!”
Or maybe, “He’s the VP of a software company AND I just saw him in a porn!”
And, “He plays hockey AND he’s the president of the William Howard Taft Fan Club!”
Also, “He buys potpourri AND was third from the left in the Beastie Boys music video for “Sabotage!”
When you ‘Stache it up in 2012, people will know you have the pizazz of Magnum P.I. and the frontal lobe of Nietzsche. That you’re a DOER and a THINKER.
You do not, however, want people to think you’re a MASS MURDERER (please familiarize yourself with the Moustaches To Avoid Section in the Manly Wallpaper For Your Face Handbook).
This means you, Cat Stevens.
And you, hipster college student studying the origin of the kaftan in Budapest.
Once you have successfully avoided looking like a World War II genocidal maniac, might I point you in the direction of Moustache Pomade? Tame the Plumage of your Wild Under-Nose Fur! Shape the Topiary of your Face-Hedge!
There’s Movember and then there’s MOTERNITY. Moustaches for eternity. Why dedicate one month to men’s health, when you could dedicate your life to the health of the Hair River Between Nose Mountain and Lip Town?
You don’t have to be a member of the Australian Men’s Rugby Team to be a Mo Bro. You just have to have the WILL and the DESIRE to the be your own Ambassador of Upper Lip Pubes.
It is time, Ned Flanders, to walk down the street and proclaim, “That’s right, ladies! If the boys on the CW are doing it! If that guy in the Progressive commercial is doing it! If Geraldo has done it for decades! Then by the hormones vested in me, I WILL ‘STACHE LIKE I’VE NEVER ‘STACHED BEFORE!”
(Do not give any credence to the Amish Motto: Beard-Without-’Stache Is Spiritually Satisfying.)
(Please note: Salvador Dali was a sex machine.)
(Also. Walter Cronkite.)
Tonight on the Manly Evening News?
The Moustache.
Is back.
