The Stache that Lived for Three Days

03 Dec The Stache that Lived for Three Days

I don’t really like cars. Sure, I watch Top Gear, and I like speed as any male would, but I never found myself obsessive about cars. Motorcycles however, are dangerously awesome. Perhaps it was because I spent Friday afternoon watching POV videos of motorcycle rides that got me into this frame of mind.

Awesome motorcycle videos:

Day 1, Saturday. I wake up, half groggy from late night watching the Rugby World Cup. The time difference between here and New Zealand means the games are on from 11pm till 5am or thereabouts. I roll over in bed, thinking about the dream I had. It was something to do with motorcycles and an open desert road…I see the Jacket and the handle bars, but something is missing. I rub my face, my 2 week old beard and moustache tickle my palm, “It’s time to shave” I think. Lightning speed doesn’t occur at 10am on a Saturday, but I think the thought process went quickly enough. I must grow a biker moustache.

I jump out of bed, look into the bathroom mirror and in 5 minutes have foamed and shaved off my beard, save the sides. The plan is to grow a moustache that extends down to my chin. I chuckle with entertainment.

Feeling proud of myself, I begin to plan my day, feeling swagger with my new stache, I decide to attend rugby in shirt and tie to match my mood. I also feel empowered to do things I’d otherwise procrastinate. I get into my car and buy six fish.

The rest of the day passes with a few people noticing. I attribute this to whichever recessive Asian gene I possess that defies my body from growing facial hair properly.

Ordinarily this is fine by me; as someone who obsessively hates body hair, I’ve always been happy with the fact that my facial (and chest) hair grows slower than an elderly person following instructions from their grandchild about using the Internet. However, today I am annoyed. The hair on my lip is noticeable, but the sides going down to my chin are light, thin, and, worst of all, one side doesn’t actually connect to the lip moustache.

Day 2, Sunday. I wake up early. I’m feeling empowered. I set about my productive day and start by doing yard work. After a solid hour+ of highly effective work, I go for a run. The run is good and it feels good to exercise on a morning. No one has noticed as yet, but I’m accepting that. I decide to pay a visit to my parents after my run, primarily to pickup an air pump to fill a kiddie pool and not to actually see any of them.

My Stache

Jeunanne (my sister) is in awe of The Stache. She notices and points out the flaw in our genetics and offers to assist me by drawing in what the finished product could look like. Naturally, I agree without hesitation, compliant, being cornered in a room with an eyeliner aimed at my face.

The finished product is EPIC. I proudly strut my stuff about, and receive nothing but praise and adulation. I reward myself by going home and soaking in the kiddie pool happily ignorant of all other occurrences in the world.

One of the fish died…Screw him, he was weak.

Later that day, I decide to grace Anthony’s (a friend) presence for dinner, it is while showering that I discover that eyeliner is not the easiest thing to remove. A louffa and some exfoliating cream later, I attend dinner. Lisa (another friend) compliments The Stache. We discuss October and Halloween.

Me: “Imagine someone looks at me and says ‘Hey, that’s an AWESOME Stache, where did you buy it?” and I can then go, “Buy it? I GREW IT!’”

Lisa & Tony: “Yeah.”

Me: “I need to find a sleeveless denim jacket.”

Day 3, Monday. I wake at 5 a.m. I am full of energy; The Stache is empowering me in ways I could not have imagined. I get to the gym for the first time in months, ready to kick those weights to the curb.

The men in the gym nod at me. Two elderly women, who have never spoken once to me in 10+ years strike up conversations. The Stache is gaining attention.

I find myself noticing its growing power. On the road, a policeman stopped to let me pass and acknowledged with a nod; he respects its dominance. I walk past a man with a thick moustache and beard. He nods at me. We are members of the elite, the few, the awesome.

I find myself speaking in a deeper tone. Confidence boosted, I walk more upright, and, when speaking to other men, I find myself pushing forward my top lip into a pseudo overbite so as to protrude The Stache. I attribute this to male dominance, similar to the colonial days of men showing their calves when bowing, or the Hamar tribe of Africa in which men receive their rite of passage only after leaping over 15 cows covered in dung. I was now a man.

I find myself randomly pointing at things. I do not know why, but I know that armed with The Stache, whatever I’m pointing towards is of importance. I no longer wave or toot my horn when allowed into traffic. I point then transition into thumbs up…The Stache thanks you.

I have become very conscious of mirrors or any reflective surface that allows me to see The Stache. Driving has become slightly dangerous.

I find myself striking powerful poses, one leg upon a chair with my hands on my hips to purvey command.

I have begun saying randomly empowering phrases; “The Stache cannot be bothered with traffic”, “Be jealous not of The Stache”, “The Stache thanks you”, and other such powerful words that strike fear into anyone within earshot.

Alas, my beautiful gift is not without some consequences. I scratch at my face constantly, like a hopped-up crack addict on two hours of withdrawal. I now obsessively wipe my mouth, in fear of my worst nightmare: Crumbs on my face.

It is now the end of day 3, and I cannot bear the burned of this itching…Perhaps I am not worthy to wield this power. I will therefore destroy it.

RIP Stache.