Turkey’s For Suckers. Moustaches Are For Real.

by Rachel Gertz

Day 35

Alright, it’s American Thanksgiving and not to sound all disinterested or nothin’ but we already had one. My mom and Roger cooked dinner and we ate like kings. Nothing compares to that kind of shin dig. So today feels a bit redundant. Instead of writing about a day based upon a holiday that is completely disputable, I am going to serenade you with something more interesting. Moustaches. Another hotly debated topic.

Specifically, I am going to sing both the praises and woes of my husband’s moustache. Many of you probably don’t care about this, and if you don’t then you obviously don’t honour Movember, Moustache May, or Whiskerino and will likely be beaten up. However, I think it’s an important  topic of discussion. It matters, folks.

Those of you who know Trav, know he can sport a pretty diabolical face bush. Those who don’t, well, let’s just say he could make 70’s porn stars jealous. Now I have struggled with this wayward beast (the moustache) for about five years. Since Travis’ chest hair morphed into a strange alien being (see summer of 2002), his face hair took a cue and also decided to travel down his neck and up into his ears. It’s like a bushy animal found refuge and wanted to have an affair with his curly chesties.

Anyway, five years of the pendulum. Back and forth: He’s got a moustache. Now he doesn’t. They seldom rear their heads for more than a month. But I think a month is all I can tolerate. He’s been sporting a cross between the porn star and the Tom Sellack since October 31st. I blame the Halloween Slut Party for this. Since ‘The Wolf’ showed up that night (he greased his own chest with baby oil even), he’s been too proud to shave it off, or that’s what I tell myself. Secretly, he believes that I believe that I like it. Which I don’t, I don’t think. I mean, I don’t believe I like it. Only I do. A bit. On Tuesdays. And sometimes Thursdays.

But herein lies the problem. I can’t like a moustache. That is just so uncouth, isn’t it? Especially a nice bushy one. Right? Most especially because Trav twists the ends, and I always catch him stroking it, like a minx. It just isn’t right. It’s like I have caught him doing something I wish I hadn’t. I apologize if I am making some of you feel uncomfortable. This is my life.

I don’t really know where I am going with all of this. I just want you to understand my awkward predicament. I hate it but I love it. Ya know? Like cinnamon mouthwash. It’s strange yet tantalizing. It’s intrusive but suave. Oh get out. I am stopping this nonsense. Women, I need some support here. How many of you are in this predicament? And what do you do? Neet it off in the middle of the night? Slip with your razor under his nose? Put peanut butter on it so he has to rub vigorously to eliminate it? Sigh. Apparently I only have till Tuesday. He takes it off Tuesday.

To justify just how awkward my position is, you’ll need some evidence. Exhibit A shows you how simply charming and almost passably respectable Travis can be when bald-faced like a baby’s bum. Tame and cute! Oddly enough, I had to go back three years to a friend’s wedding to find this one. Exhibit B is the ungodly opposite. Look at those tenacious sideburns and irresistible scruff. See that odd orange hue in the long almost whale like baleen hairs as they get dusted with carrot cake crumbs. Yech.


Well, I guess it’s not that bad. But it totally and completely is. I rest my case.

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