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I always thought of the world as kind of divided into two camps: Us and Them. And I was always on Team Us. Because I’m Us, not Them. I’ve never been Them. I had friends who were Them. Well, okay. It was just one friend, Matt, who was Team Them but still. Anyway… then something dramatic happened. It was big. I won’t get into the details, but I’ll just say I was out of circulation for a couple of weeks, and I made a leap from Team Us to Team Them.
I grew a mustache.
Not only have I never done anything like this before, but I’ve also never even thought about anything like this before. Perhaps the fear was that the finished product would look like the high school sophomore’s first attempt: impossibly thin, translucent, something that makes others think: ahh, puberty.
Some folks immediately think of law enforcement as a premiere mustachioed archetype. The cop pulling you over for speeding, the face working the desk on the homicide unit, or the captain who isn’t interested in excuses. But at the other end of the spectrum is The Outlaw. The bank robber, getaway driver, the Gunslinger. El Bandito.
This leads me to a new truth: Mustachioed men are either going to enforce the law or break it. There is no in-between. I’ve seen Serpico many times. There are some bad cops out there on the take. And some of them have mustaches. But Serpico, the one honest cop, goes through a phase where he has a mustache, too?! So, what should we make of that?
Of course, many cowboys also have mustaches. I don’t know why. Maybe it settles the cattle down? Maybe, on those long cattle drives, growing a mustache is something to do under that big sky?
It turns out there are all kinds of fun mustaches I will never ever ever ever have. I won’t ever have a gravity-defying Dali or a bushy Walrus. I will never look into a mirror and see a Plumber or a Professor looking back. The Fu Manchu is as out of reach as is the Handlebar. The Toothbrush was made famous by Chaplin and another guy who was really into genocide, so I guess no one even talks about that mustache.
Fate has dealt me a step beyond The Pencil and, according to the Internet, I have achieved a descent Lampshade. I think. It’s not an exact match. But it’s close, I think.
When I look in the mirror and see this particular mustache looking back, I think of the bean counters who labor in the back room under green visors. Or the second private eye who comes in late in the movie and is immediately killed. One friend said it made me look like I was carrying a weapon. But I think I could take a job in a nice restaurant as a sommelier. Or I could throw caution to the wind and start acting – in Italian movies. Perhaps the most generous interpretation of the new, mustachioed me would categorize me as a Spanish lover. A guy can dream, can’t he?
My daughter, who is three, keeps asking – where did you get that mustache? I don’t really have a good answer for her. I don’t know where this mustache comes from any more than I know where it’s going. I mean, yes, it was entirely the Wife’s idea, but I still don’t know if she was joking. Much of life is a mystery.
The bottom line is that I’m a different person with a mustache. I now look in the mirror and think, who is that guy? He’s not from around here. What’s his story? Is he being ironic? Does he think he’s cool? What kind of moral code does he live by?
But the most important question I ask is: Is he serious?
It’s a profound question. Am I serious? I am, like most, a dichotomy. I take much of this life quite seriously: family, friends, justice, the truth. But other things in life are much less serious, like people who take themselves too seriously, this column, and facial hair.
Today this mustache is new and funny. And the Wife wants me to keep it for the summer. From here, the distance back to clean-shaven Team Us seems immense. And while the future is uncertain, for the present, I am Team Them.
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