SECRET 'STACHE

So I’m running a little late for work and I’m shaving with an electric razor and I’m trying to figure out why my iPod isn’t updating correctly and the phone rings and it’s somebody telling me about who’s going to hook up the phone at our new house and I may have put the razor down and perhaps the iPod, too, but I really can’t say for sure. All I really know is I eventually left and made it to work just in time.

And I tell you all this just so you’ll know there was a perfectly good reason why I showed up to work with a moustache Tuesday.

Now when I say moustache, I don’t mean a My Name is Earl, or even a John Waters. I can’t produce that kind of hair over the course of a single day. But when I looked into a mirror later in my work day, there was something dark above my lip… something so faint and pathetic that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the face of a high school student.

Facial hair, or at least the ability to produce it, is considered a manly thing. I myself had a phase where I sported a full beard—therefore I am manly. But not all facial hair is created equal. Beards, goatees, van dyck (everyone gets goatees and van dycks mixed up) and side burns are all reasonably acceptable. Even the tiny soul patch can get some respect.

But the moustache is a whole different animal. Only certain types of people wear moustaches, and I don’t fit into any of the categories.

The first group is policemen and firefighters… and sometimes construction workers. This is a very macho set of professions, and moustaches seem to work on them. I’m not bright enough to know why, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say, “Dude, don’t you think it’s kind of odd that cop has a moustache?

The second group where moustaches won’t raise an eyebrow is gay club culture. Now I’m not gay, nor am I cultured, but I used to live just a few blocks from West Hollywood in the mid 1990s, or about 30 pounds ago. My daily walk to the bagel shop on Santa Monica Boulevard would take me past clubs with names like “Rage” and “Axel,” and most of the people that would whistle at me from those clubs had moustaches.

The third group is the Village People, who actually fit into both categories. They were very popular in gay clubs, dressed up like policemen and construction workers, and performed the song “Macho Man.” Rumor has it the producer who assembled the Village People put an ad out in a trade magazine to audition potential members. The only requirement was that group members must have moustaches.

So, to recap the show so far: I am not a construction worker, policeman, firefighter, gay man, or a member of the Village People. (I know many of you read this blog because you think I’m a former member of the Village People. I’m not. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.) But despite all this, I found myself confronted with this dark patch on my face that resembled a moustache.

No one at work seemed to notice. Or were they just too embarrassed to say anything? I’m in an industry where appearance matters, so I slapped on an inordinate amount of makeup on my face and tried to make the best of it.

Still no comments, but deep down inside, I knew I was sporting a moustache. And it was starting to make me paranoid. “People are looking at me,” I thought. “They think I’m a construction worker.” Worse still, I couldn’t help stroking my upper lip, and the makeup was starting to rub off.

Luck was on my side, however. During a lull in the action at work, I was able to dash home and shave again. I looked into the mirror afterwards and recognized my old friend, that dark-haired guy who doesn’t have a moustache. I breathed a deep sigh of relief an headed back to work.

It’s been a week since that traumatic event, and things have pretty much gotten back to normal. But something still lingers from that day. Just a nagging feeling, really, mostly about the YMCA. You know, it really is fun to stay at the YMCA. I could get myself clean, I could have a good meal. You know, do whatever I feel.