Movember came to a crashing close yesterday, and as a result, faces of men everywhere, including my own, are beginning to regain innocence so violently lost. During my morning commute I noticed several strangers on the bus, who seemed very familiar, yet unrecognizable. Shadows of their former selves, their bare upper lips were shining in the morning light.
As the commute wore on, I rubbed my arm against my own incredibly smooth face, and my lower lip kept thrusting upward, searching for the bristly comfort of a month’s worth of work. Whatever a moustache is to others, to its wearer, a hirsute upper lip can be a Samson-like source of power. Men can find themselves drawing energy from their mo when the chips are down at partypoker se or simply enjoying its gentle tickle when day-to-day life passes around them. Through the grief of my loss, as the bus bumped and jostled down the street, I silently asked myself:
Why are moustaches so shady?
No immediate answer presented itself; only a small smirk, as I realised that yes, moustaches are indeed shady – except on those among us with the prowess to embrace their true glory. A group to which, as you can see in the picture above, I certainly do not belong. But then, a chain of causality was unleashed in my mind so circular, I was dumbfounded:
Does the man make the mo, or does the mo make the man? We may never know.
What we do know is that in a media saturated world, Movember captured the faces of men and the hearts of women, across the globe. Perhaps it is the inherent power of the moustache itself. Perhaps the reminder of our own teenage impotence calls us to action.
Whatever the cause, the effect is clear: millions of dollars raised – fuelling a global fight and just cause. We were given hope that we will one day cure the terrible affliction we battle. Male facial baldness – I mean prostate cancer – will be shaved from humanity’s upper lip.