I stopped shaving at the end of October, about 4 weeks into our trip. For a while, it was Movember, so I rationalized it with that. Then it was December, and we were camping in increasingly remote spots as the temperature continued to drop. Shaving in front of a cloudy, polished-steel campsite mirror with ice-cold water wasn’t overly appealing. In Las Vegas, we had a hotel, but I had become too attached to what was attached to my face to do anything about it.
I don’t know what it is, but I can’t stop curling my mustache hairs into my mouth and rolling them around with my tongue. It’s disgusting. And wonderful. I have to trim it constantly because, for whatever reason, each night, one or two clusters of hairs decide to sprout an extra 1/4″ and get within range of my tongue. The bastards.
Some would call it patchy, but I call it … Depp-ish. I’ve got two dead-zones just off my goatee area that would be perfect if I was a ventriloquist’s dummy. For a long time, I had hopes of the healthy areas filling in the bare areas like a poorly-seeded lawn. It hasn’t happened, or at least it hasn’t happened yet. Hope springs eternal and hopefully my whiskers will too.
I Can’t Stop Touching It
My chin hair is oddly long, giving my face a more Greco look than before. And I can’t stop touching it. I don’t need to be deep in thought or pondering anything, my fingers are pulled to it relentlessly. It’s my precious. My preciousssss.
I’ve grown a mustache twice in the past. Once either in high school or during a collegiate winter break. I looked, depending on who you ask, like either a rapist, a porn star, or a child molester. Not good. Then I grew one for my buddy’s wedding. The doorman of the building I worked at started greeting me by name in the morning as my mustache filled in. I became a member of his mustachio club. We were facial hair brothers. His was full and bountiful, mine shy and new. When I shaved it, our relationship stumbled.
Mustache Dreams and Whisker Plans
I trimmed my neck in Vegas. I have another bare patch from my adam’s apple to the bottom of my chin. Maybe I’ll trim my cheeks and give up on them for now. But the last time I did that, I wasn’t able to stop until it was all gone. It looked too … not me. Too Hell’s Angels or something. The combination of smooth grooming and scruffy lassitude feels odd to me, like tailoring a poncho or tucking in a sweatshirt.
And will the mustache return for a solo act? It’s not allowed to according to Wifey. But I bet it would look good. Too good probably. Maybe she fears being able to compete with it for my attention.