mustache challenged

The mustache challenge ended a while ago, but I have yet to part ways with the wispy, willows on my upper lip. I warn participants of what I call the "tipping point." Mustache growing takes a good amount of commitment and a bunch of bravado and willpower. The first few days of the mustache challenge are days filled with embarrassment, usually accompanied with regret. Every time you speak to someone, an explanation usually makes it's way early into the conversation. Every look in the mirror is usually done twice, and the second look is usually a look of disgust or fear or a combination of both.

   

Then one day, without warning, it happens... "the tipping point."

   Usually around week three of the challenge, glances into the mirror become extended stares. Towards the end of cinco de mustache, as the use of waxes, brushes, and various trimmers become more frequent, so does the thinking that mustaches are "boss." 

(And ladies, it's always words like "boss", "dope" or "bitchin'" that is used to describe the facial hairs. Never, ever, ever "cute.")  

(Because it really never is.)

   So here I am, a few weeks away from the end of the mustache challenge, on the dark side of the tipping point. Living in a warped sense of reality, where shirts are chosen to go along with the 'stache. 

   It's actually really nice living in a world where the worst thing that could happen is a trimming mishap that leads to a loss of symmetry. Where the slightest breeze or exhale rustles though your facial hair and feels like a magical ride. And all the bad news in the morning paper is put aside for the latest copy of the Auto Trader as the search for a 1972 Camaro or even a late model El Camino becomes the focus of the day. 

   

Yep, life is pretty sweet... and it's especially sweet with the sweet smell of pomade centimeters away from your nose.

excuses, excuses, excuses...

I haven't been posting much lately. It's not that I haven't been writing. Oh, I've been doing a lot of that. The kind of furious writing accompanied by frustrated sighs and frantic keyboard pounding. The kind of writing that is inspired by insomnia. Insomnia caused by stress. Stress caused by, I hate to say, ME.

   If you know ME, I'm sure you've given me advice in the not too distant past that would have put me in a position where I would not be so stressed out, I would be able to sleep at night, and therefore write the kind of furiously ecstatic writing accompanied by sighs of nostalgia and frantic, yet happy keyboard tippity tapping. So you could say that a little bit of embarrassment is part of the reason for the lack of posts. Embarrassed that I'm complaining about living a life that I wouldn't been living if I wasn't ME. Hindsight, as they say is 20/20.

   

Go ahead and say your "I told you so's." I deserve it... 

I'll write about it later (then embarrassingly delete the post.)