Women: Why Do They Hate Mustaches So Much?
I often think that a little bit of fur on my upper lip
would complement my appearance nicely. It would
be stately and dignified, yet also masculine and rug-
ged. By concealing the area between my nose and my
mouth with a rim of bushy, tawny hair I would send a
clear message to the world. Here I am, my luxurious
facial growth would whisper to all, a man with a mustache.
A man of his word. A man’s man. A man not to be trifled
with. What’s more, creating this beautiful and stylish
mouth accessory would be so simple. All I would have to
do is stop shaving there and the rest would take care of
itself. In three to six months I would have myself a
glorious badge of awesome macho-hood that would, con-
veniently enough, also help to catch a great many crumbs
and bits of food that might have otherwise just fallen to
my floor, never to be eaten.
Yet every time I mention my facial hair ambitions to a
member of the fairer sex, their reaction is dishearten-
ingly uniform. Grow a mustache, Kevin, they say in their
sweet and ladylike tones, and I will never be seen in public
with you again. Oh, I’ve heard some terrible things come
from those lovely lips: mustaches are "disgusting",
they’re "so gross", they’re only worn by "perverts and
cops", a man with one would "never get laid for free for
as long as he let that prickly, wretched abomination dis-
figure his face". They say your gender is more sensitive
than mine, but this is–apparently–a base lie. Your rancor
gives you away, girls. Beneath your gentle exteriors, within
your noble souls, lurking somewhere beyond your tradition
of charity and decency and nurturing beats a heart choked
with contempt and loathing. It saddens me a bit, I have to
confess.
But I could understand and reconcile myself to your strange,
estrogen-induced idiosyncracies were they at least con-
sistent. Because you know–although you may feebly deny
it–that if some guy came strolling down the street decked
out head-to-toe in scary dragon-and-naked-chick tattoos
at least seven-eights of you would cry out "Ooooooh! Look
at him! He’s got tattoos! What a rebel!" But should regal
Mr. Mustache make that same walk, the condemnation
and hostility would be universal. Mr. Mustache has suffer-
ed your scorn long enough, I think. Mr. Mustache doesn’t
want to hurt you. Mr. Mustache only asks you to love him.
Won’t you–oh won’t you?–let Mr. Mustache into your heart?
would complement my appearance nicely. It would
be stately and dignified, yet also masculine and rug-
ged. By concealing the area between my nose and my
mouth with a rim of bushy, tawny hair I would send a
clear message to the world. Here I am, my luxurious
facial growth would whisper to all, a man with a mustache.
A man of his word. A man’s man. A man not to be trifled
with. What’s more, creating this beautiful and stylish
mouth accessory would be so simple. All I would have to
do is stop shaving there and the rest would take care of
itself. In three to six months I would have myself a
glorious badge of awesome macho-hood that would, con-
veniently enough, also help to catch a great many crumbs
and bits of food that might have otherwise just fallen to
my floor, never to be eaten.
Yet every time I mention my facial hair ambitions to a
member of the fairer sex, their reaction is dishearten-
ingly uniform. Grow a mustache, Kevin, they say in their
sweet and ladylike tones, and I will never be seen in public
with you again. Oh, I’ve heard some terrible things come
from those lovely lips: mustaches are "disgusting",
they’re "so gross", they’re only worn by "perverts and
cops", a man with one would "never get laid for free for
as long as he let that prickly, wretched abomination dis-
figure his face". They say your gender is more sensitive
than mine, but this is–apparently–a base lie. Your rancor
gives you away, girls. Beneath your gentle exteriors, within
your noble souls, lurking somewhere beyond your tradition
of charity and decency and nurturing beats a heart choked
with contempt and loathing. It saddens me a bit, I have to
confess.
But I could understand and reconcile myself to your strange,
estrogen-induced idiosyncracies were they at least con-
sistent. Because you know–although you may feebly deny
it–that if some guy came strolling down the street decked
out head-to-toe in scary dragon-and-naked-chick tattoos
at least seven-eights of you would cry out "Ooooooh! Look
at him! He’s got tattoos! What a rebel!" But should regal
Mr. Mustache make that same walk, the condemnation
and hostility would be universal. Mr. Mustache has suffer-
ed your scorn long enough, I think. Mr. Mustache doesn’t
want to hurt you. Mr. Mustache only asks you to love him.
Won’t you–oh won’t you?–let Mr. Mustache into your heart?
