Tuesday, 27 November 2012

Mo Envy

Well, dear vintageophile, I am in the final week of my facial abuse and I have hit an all-time low: I have Mo envy.

When I began my foray into growing a facial wilderness this year, I felt quite confident in my moustache-growing abilities. Hey, this was my second year of mo-ing; I was, in my mind, an old hat at this malarky. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I was smug, but I was most certainly complacent. In my complacency, I was fully prepared to have others admire me and my 'oh-to-be-so-stylish' growth. I even had lines prepared for what I would say to people when they commented in awe and wonder at my whiskers. What I wasn't prepared for was to be confronted by mo's which, to be frank, relegated my own facial furniture to a league of lesser growths and left me feeling wanting (much as Hungary must have felt after the Treaty of Trianon).

Aside from facial hair growing, and the occasional unsolicited papping, I have a day job which, on occasion, requires me to give presentations to large groups of people. This time last year I had to give a talk to a very large group of important people which, at the height of Movember, was a daunting prospect. I was, however, able to utilise my Mo to comic effect, thereby giving me a good opening point into my otherwise soporific presentation. This year, when a similar situation presented itself to me, I stood in front of the crowd with a wry smile lingering under my tash for I was prepared to make full use of the Mo to give me a light-hearted entry into my talk. I even had some lines prepared: "is this the Village People tribute band audition?" being one of my particular gems. But to my horror, as I stood up and gazed about the room, I noticed at least three other men with well defined Mo's amongst the faces glaring back at me which were far more impressive than mine. Suddenly I found myself gripped with pangs of Mo envy which rendered all attempts of facial hair hilarity null and void! This is the dark side of mo-envy.

Of course the biggest challenge with the growing number of Mo's about is spotting a faux-mo from a pro-mo. You will, no doubt, remember my all-too-recent issues with the Cotswold Pro-Mo which has taught me that it is no longer acceptable to walk up to the mo-bro who passes you in the street and comment wilfully on his tash in the hope of assuming some superficial bond under the auspices of lip-hair. The danger these days is that what was, once, the faux-mo could well be a pro-mo and such forwardness could cause offence. I have, therefore, decided to adopt the outward physical appearance of a pro-mo (by donning such trappings as tweed and a flat cap) in the hope that any faux-mo's out there will envy my audacity and any thereby reverse my own pangs of whisker inadequacy. I have found that this sartorial decision goes particularly well with walking around Christmas Markets (even if it does generate unwanted attention in public conveniences).

Do I really have to shave on Saturday?!

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