Today I’ve been harping back. No, not strumming elegiac and subtle harmonies on my over-priced, stately man-harp, but harping back. Harping back to a time when real men were judged not on their academic achievements, not on their financial capabilities, not even on their girth. Real men were deemed so for one and only reason: their moustache.
There was a time when all historical icons-in-waiting knew the only way they would immortalise themselves and get into those history books would be to sport a moustache. This was a time I enjoyed harping back to, primarily because it was a time before I even existed. But I can dream my friends, I can visualise, romanticise and I can smell the sweet scent of ‘tache.
The moustache signified importance, manliness, heroism and in some extreme cases, mass murder. If I’m honest, some of the muzz-bearers took it too far – I’m looking at you Hitler – and this has arguably led to the moustache’s untimely and dramatic demise.
Now the moustache is derided by all. At best it’s making a slight ironic comeback through indie kids trying desperately to demonstrate their zaniness and there will always be the backwoods acoustic troubadours who incorporate the moustache into a more holistic look, known to many as the ‘beard’. At worst it’s a sign of apparent mental illness: emasculated man, friendless man, lonesome man.
Looking at the facts can really hammer home how critical the moustache’s influence was. That sometimes small, sometimes boisterous, always compelling iota of facial hair could make or break a career. Look at Hitler: No-one knew who he was until he grew that iconic lip-mane of his. Would anyone really have remembered him without the moustache? I think not.
Tom Selleck, Hulk Hogan, Stan Lee, Frank Zappa, Burt Reynolds, Mahatma Gandhi, Super Mario: They were all modern-day heroes for myriad reasons. But why do we remember them so? Was it for their achievements? Of course not!! It was for their face fur. Sure, we appreciate their contribution to the human race but nobody would care about the emancipation of the Indian people if their leader didn’t look so bloody funny. Funny and noble. Such is the overwhelming power of the moustache; it could conjure up numerous emotions even in a momentary glance.
It’s difficult to pinpoint where it all went awry for the moustache. Some suggest it was all Hitler’s fault; others point the finger of shame at Freddie Mercury. Me, I’m not so sure. I’m blaming the 1990’s. Suddenly lad’s mags were all the rage telling us men that we too could look, smell and feel good about ourselves. A new breed of man was created: The metrosexual man.
This man was clean-shaven, he moisturised, sure he liked a beer but come Sunday morning he’d be burning off those calories at the gym, he was careful about his diet and whilst he admired the opposite sex, he did not ogle them or see them as sex objects. Essentially the metrosexual man was a liar. A fake. He had emerged from the shadows gleefully brandishing his emasculating torch of fire and burned to cinder what was left of virile, lionhearted man, taking the moustache in his chiselled wake.
There were non-believers everywhere. Surely this was a myth, an urban legend? The moustache will always fight back. It’s resilient, adaptable in the face of change and determined. But then, on one fateful, grey and gloom-ridden day something horrible happened. Something so atrocious and so horrific that we all knew, in our heart of hearts, that there was no coming back for the moustache. Tom Selleck – clean shaven. It was an unforgiving sight, one that sent many poor souls into an instantaneous embittered state of cynicism and denial forevermore.
I’m still recovering.
There are many among us who still believe in the moustache, who still believe in its inexorable truth, its unflinching resolve and its powers of unity. On the flip side of this coin of ambiguity are the dissenters. The hangers on who rally day in, day out campaigning against what they see as “bewhiskered wrath”. The alarming reality is that the worthy moustache, which has evolved by our side, following mankind as a hairy lapdog for centuries, has run out of steam. Where does the moustache go from here? Further reinvention? I doubt it. The moustache is old and it’s tired. Or selling out and embracing its newly-found ironic status? I doubt this scenario too. The moustache may be old but it is proud and would rather die a weary hero than pander to others.
I sincerely hope I’m wrong but the moustache may well have to wave a forlorn, teary-eyed goodbye. Goodbye good sir, thanks for the memories.
Don’t be a c*nt, grow a tache for Movember.
Whilst vigorously mas!urbating during yet another Sunday omnibus ‘Magnum P.I’ w@nkathon, something struck me: Selleck was clearly an atrocious actor. He did not have the stereotypical swagger or boy next door looks that most leads possess. But what did he have? Well, a bitchin’ assortment of Hawaiian shirts and a chest rug so furry you could roof your cottage with it. Yet no, it’s something more….
THE GLISTENING GLEAMING GARGANTUAN VAG TICKLIN’ DRAFT EXCLUDIN’ SISTER F&CKIN’ ‘TACHE!!!!
And so, I made a decision: Firstly to book my wife and I in for some marriage counselling. The role play was getting out of hand when I kept insisting she dressed as one of The Village People. My sexual orientation issues notwithstanding, I also decided it was time. TIME TO F*CK THE SYSTEM. TO BRANDISH MY FACE WITH AN EMBLEM OF SUCH GLOBAL AND CULTURAL SIGNIFICANCE NOT SEEN SINCE MIKE TYSON’S FACE TATTOO.
Two words: Ginger. ‘Tache’.
And so, it’s happening. To me, a rusty lip rug is the most sacred of myriad face fuzz. To be unashamedly ginger AND to sport a moustache shows courage, drive and, a true acceptance that not even your own wife will deem you sexually attractive ever again.
DONATE FOR ME TO LOOK LIKE I’VE STEPPED OFF THE SET OF BROOKSIDE YOU F*CKS!!!