“We can’t be lovers because we
both have mustaches. But since you’re a lady, and I’m a gentleman, I’ll shave
mine off.”
November is fast becoming my favourite month, not because it signals the
arrival of the festive season and summer in the Southern hemisphere, but
because of Movember. The month
when men of all ages and races liberate their lip locks and unite in their
attempts to grow moustaches to raise support and awareness of testicular
cancer. I do so love a man with a
moustache. In my mind it conjures up images of:
The eccentric brilliance of Salvador
Dali.
The Errol Flynned elegance of Hollywood's golden era.
The machismo of 1980’s Magnum P.I.
I still harbour a supremely un-hip and hearty crush on the mustachioed Tom Selleck based solely on his abundantly folliculated lip.
Sometimes I feel that men are a little hard done by in the hair/fashion
stakes with limits to how many ways they can style their hair without looking
like
a bell-end (the dangers of the mullet, Mohawk and Bieber-sweep spring to
mind). The sartorial choices offered by mustaches are far more intricate
and diverse:
If I were a man I would immediately manicure some fuzzy facial
furnishings. My father’s side of
the family is of the hirsute-lipped genetic line so I am not ruling out growing
my own ‘easy rider’ as a retirement project in my golden years.
Luckily for me South Africa is the land
of the ‘Snor’ (Afrikaans for moustache) and it is still firmly fashioned in non-ironic manner by men of a
certain generation, men like my father. My father’s moustache has been a constant since I was a child. He shaved it off once and we protested
that he looked odd and rather un-Dad-like.
Though the general style has remained, immaculately groomed, it has been
an indicator of his age, its colour changing with the seasons of my life. In my youth it was a mousy brown, in my
teenage years it developed a few flecks of ginger and now as I approach my 30’s
it has transformed to a distinguished snowy white. To me the moustache is a potent symbol of home, family and sentimental childhood comfort. [There will be no mention of anything
Freudian here, thank you very much.]
Occasionally my husband will indulge my weakness for a snor and play the
shaving game leaving a stylistic ‘Errol Flynn’ complete with hair side-parted
in the manner of a 1920s gent, much to my delight. Once he actually sported a hearty handlebar for a number of
days, but kept getting rather aggressive looks and comments from other
men. Eventually fearing for his
life (and beautiful face) he shaved it off. From this I learnt that the choice of mustache is a very delicate
matter, the ‘Hitler’ and the ‘Handlebar’ are probably going to get you your ass
kicked. If I were a bloke I’d go
in for the Rhett Butler with a firm dollop of “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a
damn.”
Sadly my facial follicles are still underperforming – two stray chin
hairs are not going to grow a 'Dali' – I am not male and therefore cannot join in
the bonhomie atmosphere of Movember. Not to be outdone however, I'd like to invite the ladies out there to join me a little something I like to call 'Fanuary'.
