Moustache

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I made the mistake of telling people I'm growing out my moustache. The backlash led to this.

I should have listened to them. Really, I should have. But I didn't, because I was so hellbent on trying something new that no amount of resistance could stop me. So I went for it, I grew out a moustache. Little did I know what this simple act would launch me into.

It started off innocently enough. It felt a little weird to have to constantly wipe milk and other beverages out of my moustache, but it was the price to pay for doing something I've always wanted to do.

I should have taken the hint when creepy old men came up to me asking me if I wanted to have a "good time" in a movie, but for some reason that didn't deter me. I was living a life I've always wanted to live! No amount of reasoning would make me shave off this moustache and become who I once was!

Before I knew it, I slipped into a world of drugs and alcohol. I had become so popular that people would buy me drinks and crack just because of my moustache. This little hairy lip had caused me to abandon people who loved me for people who loved my moustache. I thought I would finally be meeting women and making friends. As it turns out, my moustache was getting more action that I was, and I continued to become less and less sober, the more I started becoming jealous of my moustache.

Everyday, it was "Hey, Kyle, how's the moustache?" or "Hey, man, I see you still got the hairy lip!" It was never "Hey, Kyle, what's up?" or "Hey, man, howzit goin'?" NO! All those bastards cared about was my moustache! I started becoming more and more angry at not only myself, but my moustache as well.

One day, I went over the edge. People who I'd normally talk for days to passed by me without a second glance. I had become isolated, because I felt that if I'm not getting any, than neither would my moustache. I had become a recluse; I refused to go out with people on any basis, and eventually, it led to an intervention.

My mother was there with tears in her eyes. "How could you do this to yourself?" she cried out. "I don't even know who you are anymore!"

My father, who had worn a moustache for as long as I've known, was clean shaven especially for this day. "I have no idea what led you to this," he said, "but I feel I'm partly responsible. Kyle, moustaches are not the answer."

"What the hell do you know?" I shouted back at him. "You've always worn a moustache, and look what happened! Nothing! You're perfectly normal! Why is everyone suddenly ragging on me about this stupid moustache!"

That was when my pastor stepped forward. "Kyle," he said. "Look where this moustache has led you. You aren't your old self anymore. You haven't been to church for God knows how long. You are loved. Why did you turn to this moustache?"

I looked around at everyone that was gathered there. My girlfriend and my mother were hugging one another, crying on each other's shoulders. My pastor stood there with a concerned look on his face. My father couldn't bear to look at me. All of my friends avoided my glances. Finally, I broke down and started crying.

"I just wanted to be happy," I sobbed. "I had no idea it would lead to this!" My friends and family all gathered around me and embraced me. I knew from then on I should go back to the path that has been set for me.

This all leads me to where I am today. I stand over the sink, my face lathered up, with my razor in my hand. I put the razor up to my face and pull down. This is where I begin a better life, free of inhibitions and moustaches.