“Nice Mustache”

Donna and I will take off in the summer and go up to Wisconsin. Or somewhere.  Long weekends.  Getaway.  These are the times when I tend to be lazy about shaving.   As I’ve said before, I have no strong inclination to shave.  Given my druthers, I’d probably look like Billy Gibbons.  Or Dusty Hill.  I shave to look neat.   Presentable.   But most importantly I shave to please a certain member of my family.  If you get my drift . . . .  (see 9/14/2014).  Over the last few weeks, I have left the caterpillar on my upper lip grow.  And expand.  Maybe it’s the manly levels of testosterone that pulse through my body.  My “stash” is looking quite cool.  At least I think it does when I look at myself in the mirror.  I give the edge a little twirl.  Smirk.  “Nice stash Studly.”

For people who haven’t seen me for a few weeks, I get a quizzical look.  As if to say “what the. . . .”  Time skips a beat or two.  They recover and blurt out the words  “nice mustache!”  Nice mustache.   At first I would do a fist pump and think yeahhhh. . . .  But I have come to realize that “nice mustache” is really the only civil observation a friend might offer when confronted by someone with mangy-looking facial hair.   And I have come to the conclusion that “nice mustache” probably translates to – “Petersen you look like a #%&*X! idiot.” 

That has been the conclusion of everyone in my family who now – led by my granddaughter – routinely chant “Shave it Popi, shave it!”  My hearing isn’t so good lately.  So all I hear is “Save it, Popi, save it!”