So after an entire pubescent and adult life of being mustachioed I decided to take the blade to my upper lip.
Was it boredom? Was it curiosity? Was it risky?
Yes to all of the above.
What's done is done and my face isn't the same. My visage looks longer. Horse-ified. But I'm my own worst critic so I'm sure it's not as bad as I think. Yet, I do feel naked without my stache.
It'll grow back in due time. Meanwhile all I can do it listen to Lionel Richie, curl up in the fetal position with the lights off and sob as I think about all the milk mustaches I'll miss. I also won't be able to twirl the ends of my stache like the silent film villain who ties the girl to the railroad tracks.
Damn, I'll miss those moments the most.
Alas, my mustache will return and so will my mojo. Until then I'll look like Tracy Morgan with dreads.
No comments:
Post a Comment