The Moustache I Want

“Kissing a man without a moustache is like eating an egg without salt.” Carlos Fuentes

Wanting a great moustache isn’t like aspiring to walk on the moon. For most men, and some ladies, growing a basic moustache is attainable. But to grow a top-notch moustache one is up against 3 things. It takes time. A great ‘stache is more than hair on a lip. It is Michelangelo’s marble shaped into David. A beard grown, trimmed and shaped.  A culmination of desire realized. Stylized and personal, it’s an external trademark; think Tom Selleck, Salvador Dali, Groucho Marx and Mark Twain.  A superior growth of facial hair requires superior genes. And finally, one must deal with their native culture; and when I say culture I mean my wife.

She says hair on other men’s faces is ‘fine,’ but not on mine. The corollary rule is that all of us must be neatly shaven. No burly-home beer-brewer beards, no ZZ Top like facial hair and your moustache must be clean and clipped unlike that of Albert Einstein or Sam Elliott. To continue to be kissed I can’t keep growing the moustache I want.

My dream is to have a Handlebar moustache. A rich, thick growth of hair that can be waxed and curled on the ends. Of the 12 mainline moustaches this one says rogue and nefarious with a hint of evil cartoon character thrown in, Snidely Whiplash with a swagger. It’s not that I want the ‘stache for the same reason some guys like their Dodge Rams. I’ve had beard and moustache, one or both, since college save for a season when my employer forbade it. There was a week or two when I shaved it off from boredom only to realize that I did not like the look. This I realized from both looking in the mirror and from a constant lust after other men’s moustaches.

The wife and I have reached some sort of compromise. I can grow it out for the month of November. This is hardly meeting in the middle. To put it another way, Michaelangelo took 3 years to carve David. But relationships always involve some compromise. In The Princess Bride, Westley (sporting a wimpy pencil moustache) works with a vengeful, sword-carrying mustached Montoya to save his love. True love always sacrifices. So I’ll wait for the moustache I want.

The Wounds Of A Dishwasher

 How could such a simple chore,

Escalate into a war?

Whines, whimpers and well-reasoned pitches,

Was Sis or I forced to do the dishes?

Not hours and hours breaking our backs,

Just loading them into dishwasher racks.

Scarred I was; I’d learned to hate,

Washing and loading pots, cups and plates.

In my first marriage, might I mention,

Dishes became more than a point of contention.

Her every need stirred with bent of lies,

Wished I’d do that which I did despise.

It so inflamed her every nerve,

Soaping ceramics was not the way that I served.

My dearest one-we've walked 'along side,'

Our rings scriven from Princess Bride.

That travel mug with rings of pink,

Sits unwashed next to the sink.

You rise with the sun, Oh heavy toll,

Not much left in tank, barely in soul.

Might Westley have meant; in his "As you wishes,"

That he would gladly do the dishes?