I hate shaving. Wait, let me restate that more accurately. I HATE shaving. So, the idea of a No Shave November is just about the greatest damn idea there ever was. In late October, the email came into my work inbox: Movember was now company endorsed. Growing some facial hair to promote prostate cancer awareness. Now, I’m a sucker for a good cause — if said clause allows me to look like a bum while being included. It didn’t take me long to get signed up — I was excited to see how many guys in the building were going to take part. From my best estimate, it’s probably about 60 that signed up to do it. While they weren’t on the sign up list, I’ve also seen some women in the building that are supporting the cause too! It’s great to see a workplace come together for a good cause!
Now, while Movember is a happy time, it’s also a time of critical decision-making. Since I’m about a month into a shaved head (allows for quick cap on-cap off in the wind tunnel known as our parking lot), I can’t just grow some Kyle Ortonesque neckbeard that consumes my head. Besides, I’m clearly too refined for such a thing. Week 1 was easy, I just let my beard grow at the same rate as my hair. Angie was good with that; she likes me in a beard. But by the end of the week, it was time for a reshave of the head, causing my beard to be more dense and darker than my head hair, creating a weird vision dichotomy. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was time to adjust my face.
As I stood there looking in the mirror, my mind spun with the possibilities. I could trim my beard down, keep it clean and let it match my head. Clearly, this would please my wife, look the most professional and generally be a winning situation all the way around — except that it really violates the spirit of Movember. And this is ultimately about garnering attention for the cause, right? Goatee? Nah. I’m not a goatee fan. Had one in college for a while, but basically I think they’re for white guys who want facial bling but didn’t realize that goatees went out of fashion about 7 years ago. I’m still scarred by that time period in the late ’90s when everyone had a goatee. The Jim Rome era, if you will. So, no goatee for me.
Well, you know what that means, right? I was time for a mustache. When I came to this conclusion, it just felt right. It was in the spirit of the cause. It was so thoroughly cheesy that it was sure to garner attention. So, a week of growth on the chin, cheeks, jaw and neck was reduced to upper lip insulation. In considering the shape, the sky’s the limit when you’re just reducing down from beard level. But, with years of listening of Neil Diamond on my parents’ stereo during my formative years, I knew there was only one way to go: full on ’70s cheese, Ron Burgandy style.
Walking out of the bathroom with a swagger that really belonged only in the capable hands of Magnum, P.I., I ran into my beautiful wife who was getting the kids ready for a trip to Homemakers. Catching one look at me, she said “I’m not going anywhere now, you look like a porn star.” Instantly, my mind swirled with the invigorating power that came with being a mustachioed gentlemen of leisure. Within seconds I’d received a compliment. Quickly I tried to figure out what we’d do about the kids being awake at noon on a Sunday, when Angie came by for another run at my intoxicating aura of masculinity. Clearly enraptured by me, all she could utter was “that’s gross.”
In the three days since crafting my testosterone induced work of art, I get one of three responses every time Angie sees me: 1. The “You dumbass” laugh, 2. The “You dumbass” headshake, and 3. The “You dumbaggh” mini-vomit in her mouth. I was gently mocked by my Alpha group on Sunday. My new boss that I’ve had for all of a week commented, as did his boss. My mother has mocked me. Thankfully, my son loves it — I guess he already understands what it is to be a man. I’m so comfortable with the mustache look that I’m taking suggestions into consideration on what direction to go with this thing, so feel free to comment. Currently, I have an inkling to go Rhett Butler style.
To paraphase Thomas Jefferson, “the tree of healthy prostates is watered with the blood of martyrs.” I, my friends, have joined the list of said martyrs. All for the love of prostates. Step aside, saw palmetto, Ryan Hervey is here. To further show how bad my judgment really is, I’m going to post a picture of Mo in day 10 of my expedition, knowing full well the implications that brings. Partake at your own risk.