Mustached Glory

When I was in college, I had a crush on the teaching assistant in my Introduction to Macroeconomics class.  I had crushes on teachers before – Ms. Roskowski, 11^th grade English; Ms. Anderson, 9^th grade Math; Mr. Fujitani, 10^th grade Gym (more admiration than crush actually, he could do 100 pull-ups) – but this was different.  I think it was the way she made aggregate market behavior and employment models come alive to the class.   To be sure, Macroeconomics isn’t particularly interesting to me but somehow I came to view this class as downright gorgeous.  I became convinced that if I was punctual, participated in class, turned work in on time, and bought her dinner that she would be mine.

About that time, a friend informed me that women really like guys with facial hair.  It had something to do with the perception of men with facial hair as being overtly masculine.  I had to agree.  Some of the world’s most identifiable hunks on stage, screen, and magazine covers have facial hair.  I recalled observing a few local gals drooling over a magazine cover in the check out line at the grocery store, staring at two of those types of uber-men who seemed to incite riots among females wherever they’re seen.  In fact, some mens’ facial hair has come to symbolize not only their manhood but also their dominance in the human species to attract the opposite sex, separating them from the rest of the facially-hairless pack.  For these men, their facial hair virtually illustrates that they are harboring such an abundance of testosterone that their bodies can no longer hold it all in and it, like a great primeval pheromone, has no alternative but to ooze out all over their face in a wild, aphrodisiac-laced dance from which no woman is immune.  I had stumbled upon a solution, the solution, to one of the greatest mysteries of time.  This was the key to not just my certain, expected courtship with my teaching assistant but to my destiny-soaked relationships with all future beauties that would grace my arm.  I grew a mustache.

To be honest, the mustache did not work very well.  Just a tip to those of you considering this tactic – I know that fashion is generally cyclical with certain styles coming back around every few generations but there are certain trends which, though they may have held a great deal of power in their day, should never return.  I do not have an abundance of testosterone billowing out of my face and as such it took longer than expected to begin sprouting the most minor of whiskers.  Hoping that time would allow my inner manhood to materialize beneath my nose, I skipped class for two weeks.  By the time I reemerged into the world of Macroeconomics, I possessed a mane of darkened peach fuzz on my upper lip.  Much to my dismay, my poor excuse for a mustache did not have the desired effect.

Fast forward a few years, I eventually found my soul-mate in Katie.  One of the beautiful things about marriage is that I realized Katie would love me regardless of my lack of facial hair and even sometimes in spite of my weak attempts at growing a man-mane.  Also, honesty rules in any good relationship and so when I occasionally emerge from the bathroom with a cleanly shaven face except for a stripe beneath my nose, she is able to lovingly, tenderly say, “You look stupid.  Go shave that ferret off your lip or I’m not going out with you in public.”