I am trapped inside my mustache. It is a deluxe cage, soft and luxurious, but I am kept confined all the same.

A coat spoke to me from its perch on a decapitated mannequin in the front window of a store on Queen St. It was a haughty bastard, but he was calm and handsome and confident enough to pull it off. I wanted that lovely coat, snaps and zips, a nice collar, dark green wool, trimmed in leather, but even if I had seen clear to drop the assuredly large amount of cash the store would ask for it, worse yet would be the subsequent clothing coup, a glorious, fashionable revolution. It would wash away the tattered remnants of my contrarian, crypto-punk tinged clothes, the decade-old adolescent slovenliness which is still in plain sight.

It sounds as though the uprising has begun, yet before the flag of fashion can be flown over the smoldering rubble of my wardrobe, the insurgents must topple my ‘stache… and it promises to be nigh-impregnable; a holdfast to shelter my slowly disintegrating UNLTD hoodie, my cut-off pants, my airwalks, my pilled and faded t-shirts.

I am very fond of my facial hair, but it carries with it many connotations; truckers, Lemmy, James Hetfield, grizzled old man drunken rocking excess. Something must be done to fit it into the new, often-stylish future I have planned for myself. Because as it stands, my build, my close-cropped hair and my ‘stache are so at odds with anything remotely formal that the only way to describe the effect in its entirety is “wrestler on a talk show”.

There are several steps which must first be taken.  I’m collaborating with the revolutionaries, you see, plotting a way around the proud bastions which frame my chin with nothing more than a few passes of the clippers. But this is a perilous time for mustachedom. While the ironic mustache is on its way “out”, or so I’ve been told, it seems that some of the more set-in-their-skinnyjeans hipsters are hanging onto their gross, pervy facial hair. No thanks. With the spectre of my 30th birthday looming in the upcoming months, stumbling into a dad ‘stache would not be a good idea. And there are countless others which can scarcely even be contemplated; the Hitler, the Dali, the John Waters.

Where does this leave me? Confused, yet hopeful. Halloween is only a month off, and with it comes a ‘Get Out of You-Look-Weird-Jail Free’ card. I was already planning to crop my glorious facial hair down for my rendition of Top Gun’s Goose – perhaps a few short experiments between here and there, between me and 80’s Navy Pilot, are in order.

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