Shave me from myself

Calling all creeps – the time of year is upon us again. The time we separate from our families and friends in utter disgust.

No, not these political debates. I’m talking about No-Shave November.

In the past, I have never been interested in participating in this barbaric ritual. First, I was what some classify as a “late bloomer,” which prevented me from having the ability to grow fur on my face and other places. It also prevented me from having girlfriends that didn’t laugh at my, shortcomings.

Secondly, when I finally did hit the big time, the beast exploded and my body became a tangled net of hair. I felt the need to industrialize and cut down the rainforest on a regular basis. The more effeminate side of me said it would be a good idea to smooth myself back to age 13.

This year, however, I have been rubbing Rogaine on my face and combing my whiskers in the biggest battle I have ever faced in perfecting the penultimate signature of masculinity.

This month’s dedication to facial follicles is open to the entire gamut. As with the Oakland Post office pool for best in show at Dec. 1, every contender is welcome to run. Beards, sideburns, soul patch and even the delightful unibrow are potential champions for the unshaven.

Ladies, don’t think we’re excluding you from the festivities either. I’ve seen your peach fuzz. Go ahead and grow that thing out. Cast your wax and tweezers away for the rest of the month and embrace your inner animal.

However, my journey over these 30 days is more than just a testament to finally conquering puberty. Aside from doing my best to win that $20, I am embarking on a quest to debunk the creepiness of the moustache.

The moustache used to be a sign of infinite power and authority. Worn by police officers aplenty, Tom Selleck and Ron Jeremy – these are just a sample of revered characters.

But something wicked happened. The look became a crooked caricature, donned by evil powers and becoming associated with psychopaths and cretins. Adolf Hitler, Saddam Hussein, every convicted pedophile and Ron Jeremy — these are just a few of the monsters who forever changed the way we conceptualize the upper-lip accessory.

So far my test run to make the moustache friendly again has failed tremendously. I have been told every negative stereotype from I look like an “idiot hipster” to “I would not let my future kids trick-or-treat at your house,” all while in the beginning stages of ‘stache-dom.

I didn’t start with the intention to become creepy, but it seems improbable to break the mold. The moustache has without a doubt fallen from its golden pinnacle back in the early ‘80s.

But don’t let the ominous appearances prevent you from joining this monthly cause for irritable skin. It’s a fun way to let loose this month or prep for your gig as mall Santa or    Styrofoam cup beggar for December.

Best of luck to everyone embarking on their own facial art journey. If you would please excuse me, I’ve got a hair transplant appointment and kids to stare at in the municipal park.

Contact Copy Editor Brian Figurski via email at [email protected]