Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy @krivitskiy

I lost it at 27. I was 27 and she was 27, enigmatic and gorgeous. She was a smorgasbord of Lebanese warmth and hospitality, love you, feed you, love you, feed you, love you, traditional where and when it counted, and modern when needed, clear on role of man, role of woman. I was forbidden in her kitchen, might break something or I’m just comfortable with you there, forever a guest, always family. She had a slight air of the aloof French sophistication, sunny, bubbly California, a light Brooklyn sauciness, a growing awareness of her feminine powers with an occasional flash and dash of flirt, a humility that came with strong, extended family and generational spiritual wealth, loved openly and secretly by many. Her company was simultaneously exhilarating and peaceful.

A group of friends were hanging out one day and she suddenly asked: “What’s that on your face?” Immediately I grabbed my cheeks. I started brushing away the corners of my mouth. Maybe it was left over shawarma, a trail of hummus by mouth edge, or uncontrollable mouth drop and drool because of her beauty. I started to rapidly slap and brush my cheek; maybe a bug was crawling up my jawline. Oh no! Oh no! Was it a……auggggh! I can’t even say the word because it’s so impolite…please, please let me not have that in front of her. I couldn’t pick…. I asked weakly: “Do you have a tissue?” I hope it wasn’t a…Boog…dried piece of mucus hanging from inside the nose. I scrunched my face in pain.

She said: “No, silly! Above your lip.”

“What?” Unconsciously I licked the top of my lip. Was it a milkstache? But I didn’t drink milk today; I think I am allergic to dairy.

She protested: “Nooooo!” “What the heck is that thing on your face?” She asked irreverently.

“What are you talking about, Aphrodite?”

She took her ivory, god-sculpted hands and with her slender, carefully manicured index finger gently pointed directly at my moustache and exclaimed: “THAT!”

Still clueless: “What?” I started rubbing downwards in a staccato fashion the area between my nose and upper lip, confused by Aphrodite.

Then it hit me. “Oh! You mean my moustache.”

“Yes.” Aphrodite sighed with a slightly sarcastic Hello? Finally…sigh.

“Is it not neat?” I asked, as I thought I had trimmed it carefully that morning.

“Whatever.” She dismissed with a hand-fluttering gesture of a Queen dismissing those from her presence. “Get rid of it.”

“What?” I protested at first for the idea, then second for the gall of the goddess, and third, the realization of what was going to happen.

“You don’t like it?” I asked deflating slowly.

Pronto she answered: “No! Get rid of it, Miller. You don’t need it.”

I went home. It took me under 12 hours. I looked closely into the mirror, my face two inches away as I can’t see well without my glasses. I covered my mouth with the palm of my hand and tried to picture her goddess vision of me without the security and safety blanket of my face, the secondary hairs after chest hairs that made me a man. I turned my head and tried to get different angles. I switched my hand over to cover the right half of my moustache to see the optic. That didn’t work. I tried the left half. That didn’t work. All that was left to do was…

I took out the Notorious B.I.C., started on one side and swiped down.

I took the one shot, the one opportunity,

I grabbed the moment, captured it,

swiped the other side

to keep continuity.

I was fearful, tearful,

still stinging from the earful,

from the goddess, trying not to be Thomas,

Doubting, but waiting on a promise

Hoping her next look would bring me solace.

I could only dream,

wipe away steam

from the mirror mirror

lying on the beam,

whispering dreams about

the fairest of them all.

Still waiting for her call.

I’m nervous

Did I do a disservice?

Now I’m in a circus

losing my purpose.

Oh, there goes vanity

back to reality

No more normality,

Hope it’s not a tragedy

Maybe it’s her strategy,

Lost all my faculty,

Maybe she’ll be family.

But the moment, I owned it, Moustache, I lost it – disposed it and never again growned it. (Sorry, that was the only word that rhymed). How could a friend have so much power?

Movember

Movember, a movement, a month originally named by a Pope or a Caesar, novem meaning nine, as the ninth month of the early Roman Calendar. We call it November today. It is the time when men with deep intestinal fortitude grow a moustache and their women and families support them to raise awareness for the health of men especially regarding issues such as prostate cancer, testicular cancer, mental health, and suicide prevention.

Mothers, sisters, daughters, women, please share this blog with the men you know in your life. Hold them gently and firmly accountable. Men, hold yourself accountable. Be brave, Be gentleman.

*Name has been changed to protect the innocent.

**As of the writing of this blog I have not grown a moustache since that conversation two decades ago with Aphrodite. Her advice, a simple life, and New York City water have kept me eternally young. I shaved off 15 years off my look and age. Wherever you are, Aphrodite… I will always love you, thanks for keeping me relevant.

Movember, the movement, the sacrifice

Movember

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