Mustaches. What are they?
That is a question I have been asked many times, usually by people who lack the intellectual depth to appreciate facial hair. A mustache is hair that grows above the lip. It has been around for centuries. Many famous men have had mustaches. I myself have one, though mine is in a category entirely its own, and I will get to that shortly.
Why do men grow mustaches? There are many reasons. Some do it for fashion. Some do it because they are lazy. Some, like myself, do it because a higher purpose demands it. My moustache, as regular readers of this column know, is not merely decorative. It tingles. It tingles when something is amiss in Moose County, which, given that we average roughly four arsons and three murders per fiscal quarter in a town of three thousand, means it tingles quite often. One might wonder why so many crimes occur in my immediate vicinity. One might. I would advise against it.
Koko, of course, has his own opinions about mustaches. Yesterday he sat on my chest and batted at mine with his paw for eleven minutes. Yum Yum watched from the bookshelf with an expression that can only be described as omniscient. I believe Koko was attempting to communicate something about the recent disappearance of Old Ned Buckshot’s barn, which burned down Tuesday under circumstances the sheriff called “unusual.” My moustache had been tingling all morning. I reported nothing because I was busy inventorying my birdseed supply, which has been diminishing at a suspicious rate. Squirrels are thieves. Everyone knows this, yet no one acts.
Are mustaches expensive to maintain? Not particularly, though I did submit my grooming kit receipt to the K Fund under “journalistic equipment.” This is perfectly reasonable. A journalist’s moustache is a tool of the trade, not unlike a notepad or a source who conveniently dies before trial.
Should more men grow mustaches? Probably not. Most men lack the character for it. It takes a certain gravitas, a certain brooding handsomeness, a certain willingness to let two Siamese cats rule your life from an enormous barn-turned-residence that was renovated entirely with inherited money you did nothing to earn.
But I digress. The point is that I have written this column, which is more than Moose County deserves on a Wednesday. You are welcome.
Mustaches.
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