I’ll always remember my first. We were a year out of high school and a friend of mine was leaving to volunteer for 10 months, so I hosted a Mexican fiesta kegger as a send-off. I wanted to make the night a memorable one, and so I did it. It felt weird at first—I could barely recognize myself in the mirror afterwards—but it was amazing. I looked like a new man. I think there might even be a couple photos of it on Facebook, not that I encourage you all to look for the photographic evidence of my first. No matter the circumstances that surrounded it, I’ll never forget my first moustache.
Who knows when I first started to grow notable facial hair. Legend might say I was born with bristly cheeks, but historians place it more accurately in Grade 10. What began as an awkward neckbeard flourished into an object of envy to my colleagues who grew nothing more than pre-pubescent patches. When I arrived to have my graduation picture taken, the photographer suggested I go home, shave, and come back the next day; I overheard someone talking in the hallway at school about how they wanted a “Jacey Gibb beard”; I purchased a plaid jacket last winter and received more lumberjack comments than we had rainy days. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to being a celebrity.
To say I dabbled with moustaches after the Mexican fiesta would be generous. Maybe for the occasional Pompous Asshole Night I would trim my beard and leave my upper lip robust, but it wasn’t until a hipster party two summers ago that my fondness for lip sweaters took hold. The moustache, originally part of my costume, lingered for days before I succumbed to public opinion and shaved. However, this summer I found the heat too excessive and brought the mo’ back for mo’. Despite the recurring comment that I looked like someone’s dad, I received more praise for my moustache than for anything else I’ve ever done—including being hired as Editor-in-chief.
Unfortunately, I was forced to shave my porn ‘stache for my Halloween costume this year. My best friend and I had planned to go as Wreck-It Ralph and Fix-It Felix, and I wanted to do everything possible to avoid being mistaken for Mario. We rocked the costumes and I successfully avoided anyone confusing me for a fat Italian, but I’ve once again been left moustache-less.
Oddly enough, the day after I shaved my moustache marked the start of Movember—a pastime I’ve never felt attached to and continue to not partake in. I’ve covered the topic in the past so I won’t go into my viewpoints too excessively, but I’ll say that I love the message behind Movember and encourage every guy reading this to go get checked for prostate cancer. It’s the second leading cause of death in men, and according to Cancer.org, one in every six men will develop it in his lifetime; your butthole can also rest easy knowing the doctor only needs a blood test for the exam.
On a related/more silly note, I spent a significant amount of time procrastinating while writing this Lettitor, doing moustache-related research. Like, did you know that the oldest portrait of a man with a moustache dates back to 300 BC? If you did, then you’re either well-informed or kind of weird. There’s also a moustache on record that’s a staggering 14-ft long. Dream big, fellas.
And there you have it. My first-ever Lettitor dedicated to the facial hair that lives above your lips. I still miss my moustache quite dearly and find myself periodically going to stroke it, only to find disappointment. Not that I could compare me shaving to someone losing an appendage, but my moustache has become a phantom limb of sorts—though one of the advantages to being a Wolfman is the ability to grow facial hair at an unprecedented rate. I know that it’s only a matter of time before I’m reunited with my moustachioed companion and I can go back to being mistaken for someone’s dad.
So it goes,