I’m currently growing a moustache to raise money for various charities associated with men’s health – or “doing the Movember thing”, to use the official terminology. I’m not enjoying the experience. I was a blond child and what’s left of my hair is mousy brown, but my moustache is ginger. That’s right, ginger. I look like a lower-middle-class spiv, circa 1948.
To make matters worse, I can’t persuade anyone to sponsor me. So far, I’ve raised a grand total of £60, but even that paltry amount means I can’t shave it off until November 30th. As Caroline said, “Wouldn’t it have been easier to just donate £60 to a prostate cancer charity and not bother with the moustache?” She then added, “You do realise I’m not going to kiss you for a month?”
God knows what possessed me to do it. Part of it was vanity. I somehow convinced myself that I might actually look [itals] better [itals] with a moustache. It’s the same flawed judgment that prompts men to buy some absurdly flamboyant item of clothing only to be laughed at by all their mates the moment they wear it out. The difference is, they can take it back to the shop the next day, whereas I’m stuck with this lip weasel. (To read more, click here.)