My mustache fell off today.
The entire thing.
I had a mustache when I woke up this morning. Sometime around midday I looked in the mirror and I didn’t have a mustache.
It wasn’t in my life very long; it made a tremendous impact in the short time that it perched itself upon my upper lip. I still remember the day that my son noticed it for the first time, and said “Daddy, your mustache coming back?” From that day forward, he carved out a little portion of every FaceTime conversation we had to talk about my mustache.
It wasn’t the biggest or fluffiest mustache that you’ll ever see. It didn’t have handle bars, or curl up into twisted corners like that of a television villain, but it was mine.
I’ll miss you friend.
I leave you with a poem.
Tom Selleck has one, Burt Reynolds has one too,
Lionel Richie has one far too thick to comb through,
The Frito Bandito had one, but shucks he was racist,
Borat, and Ron Burgandy had them stuck to their faces,
You can be handle bars, or goatee if you grow to the chin,
This isn’t goodbye, it’s farewell until I grow you again.