February 2003

Last Week I Tried to Grow a Mustache

I got laid offa my job a few weeks ago. February 6th, to be exact. I packed up my junk and drove home to begin my new life of unemployment. My wife made me a terrific dinner, and gave me beer. I couldn't have been more happier.

The next day I realized something - I was free! Finally! It snowed that day as well, and sometime in the middle of the day I took a shower. After the shower I shaved my face. It would be the last time I shaved for a while.

I started to grow a mustache. At that moment, it was all about me looking all jobless and sleazy.

My facial hair bloomed real late. When I hit puberty, my voice changed, I had ill-times boners, and I grew hair on my rad chilies, but I could not grow facial hair. In high school, I shaved three, maybe four times, but not for any real reason. The hair on my face grew in blonde and soft. I may have become a man, but I still looked like a kid.

Don't get me wrong, I am not interested in growing that 'stache just yet. Having a baby face is a good thing for a man in his late 20's. Sure, people don't take me seriously all the time, but looking younger than your age beats looking older any day of the week.

This mustache would be extra special, tho', because it would become a monument to my unemployment. I dreamed of a long, bushy 'stache draped over my upper lip, catching bits of food for later consumption. My 'stache would be a tribute to my freedom!

It was going to be all about me looking sleazy!

After a few days, my wife noticed the itchy stubble under my nose, but only if she looked at it from the right angle. The next day I began to play with it, rubbing it like a detective would. By the fifth day you could notice it without extremely bright light. I could sense the coming attraction! I was gonna be a man!

But alas, it would not be. On the fifth day, the rough stubble began irritating the skin near my wife's upper lip. I promised her that I would only nuzzle her neck for the next two weeks until the 'stache grew in completely.

More and more, what began as a half-assed idea was becoming a bad idea.

The Friday after I started growing my mustache, a full seven days later, I found myself standing in front of the mirror in the Amerisuits Hotel on Route 70 in New Jersey. The hair was short, tough and blonde - quite unlike the hair on my head.

I shaved it off that evening. I missed it then, and I miss it still. Sure, my wife let me kiss her all over the place in thanks for me shaving off the stubble, and that DID make me feel much better. Alas, something was missing, because I just know I would have looked real sleazy.