Many a boy born in the 1970s dreamed of one day growing a moustache. Perhaps it was born from hours spent watching Magnum P.I. get the girl and then drive off in the Ferrari.
Maybe it was from watching Dennis Eckersley shut down batters with Oakland Athletics. Or perhaps it was because the men doing things with unclothed women in those magazines found in the neighbor’s shed all had large moustaches. Who is to say where are our dreams come from?
I don’t know. But I do know who crushes those dreams in their infancy. I know who cut down the moustache tree before it could bear fruit–my wife. Perhaps, it’s because I looked– “like a disgusting pervert.” Or maybe it’s because– “everyone’s going to laugh at you.” Or perhaps because it resembled the men in those magazines or at least what they symbolize. For whatever the reason, I was forced to shave my moustache.
But I ask… If not now, then when? When will the time be so right as now? There are no job interviews scheduled in my day planner. I have the free time and necessary resources to dedicate to the cultivation of a moustache. Why must this dream whither and die?
Oh… I guess that’s why.