The absolute best part of being unemployed (and single) is that I have time to try out all different kinds of mustaches. Even though I may not have any money in my bank account, at least I can send my upper lip on a wild and crazy adventure it won't soon forget. And what an adventure it will be!
Of course, my immersion into the world of exotic mustache-growing has been met with trepidation by some of my friends, although I suspect this is simply a matter of jealousy. My friends, mostly women, are follicularly challenged in the upper lip area (except for Francesca, my Italian cousin). Some of these friends even went so far as to suggest that one of the reasons why I'm unemployed (and single) is because of my propensity toward growing outlandish mustaches.
I began my hairy adventure a little over a week ago, when I decided to stop shaving in order to see just what my loveable little follicles have been up to. I was pleasantly surprised by the lushness of my face sod, so I decided to begin my mustache madness adventure the same way one would begin any adventure; with a well-thought-out plan of action.
The first mustache style I settled on was the "Hulkster" (inspired by octogenarian pro wrestler Hulk Hogan). I decided to begin my journey with the Hulkster for several reasons. The Hulkster provides a foundation, a starting point if you will, to other more elaborate and outlandish mustaches. It's also a great way for a man to change his entire outlook on life. The Hulkster is a bold statement, breaking free from the confines of the upper lip and advancing downward to the chin. It is the rebel of mustaches, the preferred facial hair style of bikers and bar room brawlers, and within hours of sporting the Hulkster I began to feel like a rebel myself. I felt menacing, like a biker with rabies. My first public appearance with the Hulkster was at my local Walmart, where I found myself scowling fiercely (like a biker with rabies) at every fat woman in a motorized cart who happened to drive into the back of my legs. At one point I may have growled at one of them. I don't remember.
Since it's so easy to get carried away with the Hulkster, I decided that my next mustache style should be something a little more refined, so I selected the most grandiose of all mustaches, the handlebar. This is where I find myself at this very moment, waiting for my mustache to grow long enough so that the ends can be twirled upward. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm for all of the wonderful adventures I can have with this particular mustache.
The handlebar mustache, a style which I like to call the "Rollie Fingers" (inspired by the Hall of Fame pitcher who brought back the handlebar 'stache after a century of obscurity), evokes more fantastic imagery than any other style of facial hair. The handlebar is the preferred mustache of interesting men: magicians, 19th century strongmen, and silent movie villains who tie damsels to railroad tracks. It is a dramatic and theatrical mustache, even though it emanates a certain bygone gentility (much like the Colonel Sanders goatee, which is really nothing more than a less-defined handlebar mustache with a disconnected chin puff). Some would even say that the Rollie Fingers is the undisputed King of All Mustaches.
From the handlebar, I plan on taking my mustache on a law enforcement adventure with an American classic, the "Copstache". Yes, I'm aware that common sense would dictate that my journey should go from the Rollie Fingers to the Colonel Sanders to the Walrus (a.k.a. the "Brimley" or the "Hyneman"), but I suspect it's only a matter of time before I re-enter the workforce and like most vacations, you have to squeeze in as much adventure as you can in the shortest amount of time possible.
The Copstache will also allow me to transition to one of history's most notorious mustaches, the Hitler. By shaving an inch or so from each side, I can go from peace-keeper to brutal dictator. It is unfortunate that this style, commonly known as the "Postage Stamp", has fallen out of favor since WWII. In pre-war times, the Postage Stamp was the preferred mustache of funnymen, like Charlie Chaplin and Oliver Hardy. The great cartoonist Max Fleischer even had one. I don't expect to have much success with the Hitler, because most modern attempts at a Postage Stamp revival have failed miserably. Michael Jordan sported one for a Hanes commercial in 2010, which caused much hullabaloo (although it probably didn't do much to boost underwear sales). One of the few remaining Postage Stamp aficionados is Robert Mugabe, who (like Hitler) is also a crazy dictator.
The final mustache of my foray into follicular farming is the venerable pencil mustache, or the "John Waters". The pencil mustache earned its name because it is thin and narrow, giving the impression that it has been drawn across the upper lip with a pencil. I love the pencil mustache because there is an inherent creepiness to it, evoking the spirit of folks like Vincent Price, Gomez Addams, and (to a lesser extent) Little Richard. The John Waters brings to mind a bygone era, a nostalgic meandering which takes the wearer to smoke-filled jazz clubs and mambo dance halls.
I intend to end my mustache adventure after sporting the pencil mustache, at which time I will return to my normal clean-shaven self. But until that day comes I intend to enjoy life by living vicariously through my upper lip. Who knows, maybe I'll become unemployed once again at some point in the future, which will give me an opportunity to explore the wonderful world of sideburns.
