Movember: Every November, men all across the nation demonstrate the incredible power of male unity, and, every November the nation’s women secretly think ‘typical men, their mind’s always in the same place’. But as hair sprouts like facial antlers, it’s all about the real reason for growing our mustaches, to bring attention to the peril of prostate cancer, which sure as heck ain’t no laughing manner. Men, from 25 to 197 years old (okay, men don’t live to be 197, but when they’remarried it sure feels that way), need to have their prostate checked every year. And no, there ain’t any reputable do-it-yourself kits available, so make a doctor’s appointment!
Being inherently prone to enjoy any opportunity to sway away from the routine and ordinary, I looked forward to growing my mustache. Oh, I’ve grown a mustache a number times over the years, but it usually ends with me obsessively twisting, and feverishly pulling at it, until my family is on the brink of madness. This results in remarkable phenomena taking place. I find my supper served with a whole razor hidden in my mashed potatoes and a tall glass of shaving cream, or razors perched on my pillow and toilet seat. Should these methods fail, the Duchess of Doitorelse thinks nothing of reminding me with a sandwich, pickle, chips and a disposable razor for lunch.
The first week, Lady Laughstoomuch suppressed her smirks rather well, but by week two, the giggles were getting much more often, and lasting longer. I’d try to have a serious conversation with Countess Chucklelots, but she’d break out in peal after peal of laughter. When asked just what the heck was so funny, she’d clap her hand over her mouth like a bashful schoolgirl, and point at the dead cells growing out of my face. When I reminded her of the nobility of the cause, I was informed that bringing attention to something, doesn’t mean that I have to make my face look like the place where it lives.
Determined not to submit to her rule (a daily event), I told her that not only was I going to keep my new hairy appendage, I was now going to grow it out so long that I could style it into a perfect ‘handlebar’ mustache. She thought that was just an awesome idea, and wondered if I also could grow a suitcase to pack my sorry butt into, as I ‘steered’ my way out the door. That riled me to the point I said I was then growing a whole beard. She said that was just what I should do, then she’d happily donate a bench to the city for me to live on. Good grief, you’d think I’d learn!
Well, the days are winding down now, and Her Excellency’s executioner is sharpening her blade, anticipating the utter deforestation of Mt. Will. I thought I had outsmarted her though. I told her that she had to pay stumpage fees to log my nose ticklers this year. I heard her say, “Good idea! How about we swap fees…” as I tried to outrun her brain. Dang woman. Now, I know that next week, as haunting winds howl in the dead of the night, the infamous mustache murderer, Chainsaw Cathie, is a’coming to git me.