La moustache a disparu !

  

Well, it’s gone.  That moustache I was growing for charidee.

Whew, and thank goodness.  Though I dressed in my frox and heels even with the ‘tache, like a grey caterpillar on my upper lip, it was in boy mode that I hated it most. 

Not only did my fledgling ‘tache tickle me in the night and keep me awake, not only did it get in the way when I blowed (blewed?) my nose, but all day long I looked oddly disturbing. 

Almost (but not quite) like a real gurl with a fake ‘tache.  And definitely at serious risk of undermining what very little authority I have these days in the office, and most of my self-confidence too.  I even stooped to explain my hair-lip to anyone in the street who’d listen.  “It’s not that I forgot to shave this morning, I’m growing a moustache for charity.”  And then people would look shifty and start backing away.

So it’s gone. With two weeks still to go.  It could have been magnificent after a further 14 day’s growth, but instead was just sad and disturbing.  Terrified of being read though I am, better to be outed as a cross-dresser, than looking like a paedophile.  And anyway, I thought that as I would never parachute-jump for charity, why look daft for month either?

How odd that one of man’s secondary sexual characteristics should look so out of place.  40 years ago, when I was back-packing around Turkey it was positively de rigeur to have a ‘tache.  At that time any Turk without a Tom Sellick moustache was considered gay.  (And as part of a small group of three male students as clean-shaven as could be, we were followed round that part of the Med as if we were cats on heat.)

La Moustache est mort.  Vive la moustache!

(Yes, moustache, in French is actually a feminine noun.  Wowsers!). 

Now then, when’s breast-cancer week?