It’s Movember again. And that can mean only one thing: the terrible and dispiriting moustache of a just-teenaged boy.
Actually, that’s not strictly true. For the past 2 or 3 years my friends both here in Hong Kong and elsewhere have bravely (read: effortlessly) resisted the razor and bushed up, top-lip-wise, in next to no time. I can’t remember now the exact rhetorical wriggles I resorted to in order to excuse myself, but they evidently worked …
This, though, will be my ‘tache-growing debut. 2013. Remember the year. History will.
In truth, very little will change—at least from a distance. Up close (ohhh, up close …), I’ll look that bit more like a try-hard, fall-short, fishoutofwater hipster. Or I could, alternatively, look genuinely creepy, of course, like some disgraced middle-school caretaker found with a handmade “sex-Tardis” in his living-room. (Don’t Google that.)
Other characterful visages are more than possible, and none of them look good in the mind’s-eye.
Despite these relative unknowns, however, there are some certainties to rely upon. The main one being that whilst my Mo-friends are Mo-rauding round Hong Kong like a halloween-gang of George Bernard Shaws, I’ll be the one looking like a shit, blonde, Gary Neville impersonator. And I’m not even sure such a category exists.
Whatever the case, though, whilst others lazily leaf through books of moustache designs, deciding which one to wax, twirl and thirrup into place first, I’ll be living with the genuine, adolescent regret that I even started out with this whole Mo-growing fiasco in the first place.
And that’s got to be worth some sponsorship, even if you’re inexplicably pro-testicular cancer, which seems, I would hope, unlikely.
I’ll be trying to write a bit more about the damn thing on here, mainly as an angst-outlet, but also as an excuse to fire up the casual-writing engine again. And the blog itself, which has lain fallow for far too long.
This is my page.
And this is my “team’s” page.
Your part is simple. Get sponsoring. I’ll report back soon.