Stash the 'Stache? Or Does Facial Hair Make the Man?

A few months ago, Boyfriend told me he wanted to shave his beard…into a mustache.  

I never had a problem with his beard; in fact, I kind of like it when he has one. But I didn’t take the mustache thing seriously until he disappeared into the bathroom one night and returned with one.

I didn’t think it would last. When we were freshman, his roommate thought it’d be funny to let us give him a truly awful bowl cut, and it was a matter of days before he was so embarrassed that he got rid of it. I figured this was sort of the same situation.

But it’s been almost four months, and the ‘stache survives.

Guys love it. They revel in its thickness and slight curl at the ends and express their remorse about how they can’t grow a whisker, let alone a full-blown mustache.

Girls seem to find it funny. There have been several occasions when I have caught young ladies nudging their friends and giggling at the mustache. When this happens, I usually give them a sympathetic smile or the stink eye, depending on what sort of mood I’m in.

Boyfriend’s mustache also has magical powers. For starters, it grows in a rusty red-tinted color while the rest of his hair is blonde.

It also gets him free stuff. We were at Buckeye Donuts on Ohio State’s campus at the beginning of March. As usual, the chef called his name and handed Boyfriend his bagel. Then he asked Boyfriend what kind of donuts he liked.

Boyfriend explained that he had already ordered and paid for his pumpkin and blueberry donuts when the chef interrupted him.

“Go ahead and pick out another one on the house for having such a rockin’ stache,” the chef said.

My mouth dropped open (not because of the magical powers, but from the realization that this incident would surely extend the mustache’s life by another few months).

Last weekend was his little sister’s first communion. His poor mother begged, bribed and pleaded with him to shave it off.

But the ‘stache remained, especially because we went to see Bob Biggerstaff later that night at a comedy club in Cincinnati and he personally paid it a compliment (which is saying something, because Bob Biggerstaff has quite a mustache himself).

Finally, Boyfriend confessed to me that he thought his facial hair had run its course and he was ready to make the cut.

And then came his first men’s softball game of the year.

After winning the game 18-6, the guys on the team proclaimed his mustache to be their “good luck charm” and insisted that he keep it until the end of the season.   

At this point, it makes no difference to me. Sometimes I forget that it’s even there. We met my co-workers for drinks last week, and the next morning at work, one of them asked why I hadn’t warned them.

“About what?” I asked.

“About your boyfriend’s epic ‘stache!”

Just because I’m used to it doesn’t mean other people are. Several of our mutual friends have passed him on the street, confused as to why a guy with a connoisseur mustache on his mug is waving at them (Google it).

I miss Boyfriend’s clean-shaven look; the way it was when we first met as freshmen at OSU. But as I’ve said all along: it’s his face (and I love him for a lot more than just that).