The mustache in the rear view mirror

The mustache as seen in the rear view mirror

How time changes things. 

A while back, the first hairs started poking my lips and it really bothered me.  Immediately I went in search of products and techniques to tame these renegade hairs that insisted on attaching my mouth.  Evil whiskers must be brought into submission, I thought.  I would wax, glue, paste, or do whatever was necessary to keep my lips clear (except for trimming - that was and still is prohibited).

For the last several days, however, I have given the mustache more latitude.  I have used no waxes or glues - just a little bit of oil on a couple of the mornings.  And the undisciplined hairs, suddenly realizing that their target is once again obtainable, have set their sites on my mouth.

Today, while riding as a passenger in the back seat of a car, behind the driver's seat, I looked up and saw the reflection of my face in the rear view mirror.   Framed right in the middle of the mirror, there it was - a nice full handlebar mustache.
I admired how even without any styling aids, it had a beautiful handlebar shape with nice curls on the ends.  I just sat there and enjoyed the view of my maturing facial hair.  While this mustache would have been barely noticed in a Civil War regiment or other crowd of well-mustached men,  in my world where very very few men dare to grow a handlebar mustache, it really stood out.  With only a little over two months of growth, there it was.  I thought to my self how privileged I am to have the pleasure of wearing such a beautiful attachment.   A big glowing smile suddenly crept across my face.

Then I felt it.  The unmistakable prickle of whiskers pressing against both my upper and lower lips pressed there by my smile.  The feeling that women either love or hate when kissing mustached men.  But rather than being an irritation, I marveled at how it actually felt good.  I raised my hand to my mouth and gently pressed the mustache against my mouth.  More prickles.  It felt awesome.  I brushed it back an forth.  More awesomeness.  That smile just kept growing.  I then brushed the hairs to the sides, but still has some right against the mouth.  That felt good too.

Somewhere over the last month or so, the moustache has entered my senses in ways that it never has before.  First, it is part of my peripheral vision.  When looking down, or even straight ahead I see it.  A grayish brown cloud extending across my lower field of view on both sides of my nose.  The curls, yeah, I see them too - little spots where the cloud billows up a bit more.  It is always there.  I can try to contort my face and hide it, but it just moves around but never out of view - kind of like moving offshore ocean fog when viewed from the beach - there and moving but nebulous and distant.  Looking down, I suddenly spy a rogue gray hair poking out in front.  I reach to brush it down.  I pops right back.  The other sense is the whiskers pressing against my lips which I just described.

If I were to remove the mustache, I would miss the peripheral view, the prickly feel on my lips, the smiles of passersby, "I really like your mustache" and other compliments that now come on a daily basis, friends, acquaintances and colleagues reaching up and twirling their fingers beside their smiling mouths as they acknowledge my appearance.  I would also miss the "proper care and feeding of a mustache" - the attempts to comb, brush, wax and style that elusive perfect handlebar shape and curl.

Yes, I admit, I am a mustache addict and withdrawal would be difficult.  I am loving this journey and look forward to the months to come when I test the limits of where I and this mustache will go.