It was the summer of 1972, a few weeks before I left
for college with the hope of becoming an East Carolina University Pirate. “Earl’s not gonna like that mustache.” Earl was Earl Smith, head baseball coach at
ECU. A former Pirate was sharing
acquired wisdom. The mustache was mine.
I was accustomed to archaic hair rules for baseball
players. Untamed tresses and facial
fuzz, be it sideburns, mustaches, or beards, were deemed by all my previous
coaches as inappropriate and downright un-American.
Cursing was allowed.
Tobacco use was allowed. Alcohol
consumption was allowed. Caveman
attitudes were allowed.
Mustaches? Not allowed!
Things are different now. Facial hair abounds in sports, professional
and otherwise.
There also are some widely-observed events that
actually celebrate such adornments.
“Movember” is one. Men everywhere
are urged during the month of November – officially Mustache Month -- to grow
mustaches in order to engage others in conversations about men’s health issues,
specifically testicular and prostate cancer.
The goal is to raise money for research into treatments and cures.
The Air Force offers similar encouragement to airmen
during Mustache March, a month-long honoring of Vietnam-era flying ace Robin
Olds, lionized for flouting military grooming rules. Olds fought battles
wearing a handlebar mustache – complete with wax -- until he finally received a
direct order to lose it. Allowing a
little room for command-sanctioned protest and defiance is good for morale.
An official Mustache Day is less-established. Dates in February and March are touted, but
no consensus exists.
My first mustache sprouted early in my senior year of
high school. Yes, it was the ‘70s, but I wasn’t aspiring to hippie status. I wanted to be like Reggie Jackson, the home
run-slugging outfielder of the Oakland A’s who neglected to shave his upper lip
as the 1971 major league season wound down.
Many people, including me, noticed Reggie’s recalcitrance.
I endured clever responses as nature took its
course. “What’s this?” people asked, as
they pointed to their own lips. “Did you
forget to wash your face?” “Is that a
caterpillar under your nose?” It seemed
my high school baseball coach thought I was a Communist. He started calling me “Fidel.” Although I shaved for the season, I rejoined
my comrades when it was over, sans olive drab and black boots.
Men with mustaches sometimes are described as looking like
a “’70s porn star.” How do so many
people know about that?
Over the summer after the last time I chopped off my
upper lip growth (to satisfy Earl Smith), I played baseball in a local league
back home. My mustache was bushy and my
hair lopped over my ears. Oddly enough, I
still could play the game. Some of the flashing wits in opposing dugouts called
me “Grandpa.” I was 18 years old. They were jealous.
When I attended seminary a few years later I found a
more welcoming environment for my outlandish appearance. On the first day of a
class simply titled, “Isaiah,” as we took seats around a square table, our distinguished
professor suggested we each introduce ourselves. “And we’ll begin with the gentleman with the
beautiful black mustache.” He emphasized
the second syllable, and he meant me.
Beautiful black gradually gave way to salt-and-pepper,
which now blend into a fairly consistent grey.
My upper lip now celebrates 49 years of liberation from razor
blades.
These days it seems when a mustache is cultivated it
is met not with challenge and derision, but more likely apathy. Years have piled up since anyone found it
necessary to mock or chastise me for my bristly friend. In fact, on the rare occasion anyone comments
about my mustache, it’s an expression of admiration.
I have achieved a state of whiskered peace and
contentment.
But what’s with this trend of a three-day
stubble? Did those guys forget to wash
their faces? Do they need to borrow my
razor?
What has happened to our standards??
