Strange musings from the bakery
The Spring Break Chronicles, Volume 2: Don't look directly into the mustache

By David Baker

March 21, 2008 | The Chili's in St. George is as good a place as any to decide you want to change your life.

I'm not talking about your religion, political views, taste in food and women, tipping habits, personal hygiene or general outlook on life -- I'm talking about growing a mustache.

It's the single biggest, best decision a man, or woman, I guess, can make to improve their stock in the eyes of their peers. Any mustached person under the age of 35 and not the leader of a cult has some license from society to be absurd, or bad ass -- depends on your perspective.

You can say ridiculous things. "Well, you sure are purdy as the day is long. Can I buy you a can of Skoal and show you the mattress in the back of the truck?" "Are you kidding me? I'm a diplomat and this is the Smithsonian you're standing in, Pardner."

You can add the phrase, "And then I spun them slicks on my Firebird and ran that some-a-bitch down 'n' got my Lynyrd Skynyrd 8-track back. Did ya know that's the one that's got Simple Manon 'ere?" onto anything you say.

You can do ridiculous things, like barking at strange, ugly women or yelling, "This here sidewalk isn't big enough for the both of us," at people walking toward you and then challenging them to a medieval joust.

See, I have a mustache or I wouldn't have been able to write such genuinely troubling gibberish.

But with great mustache comes great responsibility.

Many men died for our right to grow whatever style of lip decoration we please. A lot of good men. A lot of family men. A lot of men who would have been denied that right had a group of Communist females garnered the power in this country of mustaches.

You see, there are few things in the world women like less than a mustache -- Jean Claude van Damme movies and fart machines being the only two that come to mind at the moment. Women would rather jump headfirst into a vat of maggot-infested cow dung than go home with a mustached man. It's the female species' greatest fault -- that and their inability to grasp simple concepts, like the unfettered hook-up and the wishbone offense.

It takes a lot to convince a lady -- even if she loves her man and would do anything sort of letting him grow mutton chops to make him happy -- to let that guy fulfill his birth right and grow a fu manchu.

I know how hard it is. I tried like hell that day in Chili's to convince my friend Berto's girlfriend to let him grow out the 'stache for the waning days of Spring Break. Rachel has been a staunch anti-mustacher for at least seven years, so the task wasn't an easy one. I had to make grand, Obama-esque -- can I even say that yet? -- speeches that were worthy of a slow-starting clap that built up to a low roar.

"Listen, Rach, this is the perfect opportunity to just let Berto have the mustache," I said. "You'll be getting your wisdom teeth out and will be all hopped up on pain killers. You'll never even know.

"And besides," I'm building to an epic and pompous tone, now, "he has a great 'stache, and to make him hide that from the world would just be criminal. I know you're not a criminal. So let your light shine and let Berto's mustache shine as well.

" There was a weird absence of clapping, but I guessed it was because people were trying to eat.

"OK ... I guess," she said in a meek voice, as if my words had somehow defeated her mustache-hating resolve.

"Hell yes. Hell yes. You won't regret it, Rach, I promise," I said, high-fiving Berto, our hands meeting above the tattered remains of our chips and salsa.

When we got back to Berto and Rach's apartment in Ogden that night, we set to making our faces a statement to all the world -- a statement that says, "I support the 'stache, and I don't care who knows." Since Berto had lost his trimmer in Vegas -- at least that's what Rach led us to believe, I personally think it was her last attempt at stopping the mustache parade -- we had to shave the rest of our two-week beards off as they were, no preparatory shortening.

We had acquired some disposable razors, which explains why it took me half an hour to strip my face of all the other not-so-important facial hair that would let my mustache shine brightly from below my nose. The only thing duller than a disposable razor is Carlos Mencia's wit.

All the effort was worth it, though, when we emerged with brand spanking new statements of our commitment to the absurd. For the next two days, I couldn't look Berto in the face without having my eyes immediately train to his 'stache, at which time I'd start busting out in a fit of uncontrollable laughter. We looked ridiculous, or awesome -- that's just another question of perspective.

The mustache was the topper on the sweet, succulent set of lips that was the first half of Spring Break, the perfect accent to the finish of a strong whiskey drink, a fitting song to play at in the last scene of a spectacular movie.

"This was a great idea, B," I said as we strolled with our mustaches held high into the Moab Brewery for wings and beer. "My only wish is that my 'stache was better. Fuller. Thicker. Darker. That I could do more for my 'stache."

"Well, the buffalo wing sauce really does match your facial hair, so you could just smear some on your mustache while you're eating," Berto said.

"That's a damn good idea."

I was too clean of an eater that night to make much of an impact on the color of my mustache, so when I waltzed into the local bowling alley I still had the whispy, reddish-blond 'stache of earlier in the evening. I wish I really could have brought a lot more to the party, because the bowling alley in Moab is a place that truly understands a mustache. It better understands the mustache-mullet combo pack, but 'stache by itself still plays well with this crowd.

It was nice to feel like, for the first time since the mustache came about, that I was among friends. People who weren't going to judge me by the abundance of hair framing my upper lip. People who understood we were all brothers in God's facial hair family. People who know what it's like not to be able to give out Halloween candy to kids, or run for political office because they'd always be that creepy guy with the porno mustache that kids and voters should stay away from. Even some of the women in the building knew what it was like to have others disregard their attractive eyes or chest and instead focus on their mustache.

For a split second, I thought this may be heaven, and wondered why I'd ever want to leave this place. Then I saw a 300-pound woman -- appropriately dressed in a tent-sized purple T-shirt, complete with a deer jumping a fence that took up the 50-square-feet of space on the shirt's front -- go up and kiss a man with no teeth, a skullet and a Jeff Burton hat.

That sort of tumultuous scene is enough to quickly and violently snap anyone back to reality. Back to the beard for me.

MS
MS