Mustaches are all the rage right now. It doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, why is it cool to have fake mustaches plastered everywhere – pencil toppers, bumper stickers, notebooks, T-shirts – but it’s not cool to have a real one under your nose?
I have a mustache. A real one. Under my nose. I’ve had it since I hit puberty. In reality it was blondish and peach fuzzy. In my mind, it was Hitler-esque. And there was no way to hide it. I tried growing out my bangs, but I looked like Cousin It. So I kept my head lowered for the entire time I spent in eighth grade.
One day, I was on the bus after school, sitting next to my best friend. We were seated in the middle of the bus, but within ear shot of the cool kids who sat in the back. There was a boy I had a big crush on. To be honest, every girl in school had a crush on him. His name was Mike and he was good-looking and looked great in his bell bottom jeans. On this particular day, I heard Mike say, “Layce’s not bad looking except for her mustache. I would never go out with girl who had more facial hair than me.” All the cool kids laughed.
Talk about embarrassing.
That’s the kind of thing that haunts you forever.
But I didn’t cry. I didn’t even flinch. I went home and spread Nair cream all over my upper lip. While I waited for it to work its magic, I plotted my revenge. It was a plan that didn’t come true until two years later.
I was sixteen. Mike was nineteen. He didn’t remember me. He drove his Camaro through the drive through of the hamburger place where I worked and I served him a burger with a smile and gave him a free order of fries. He took the bait, sauntered inside and asked me out.
We dated for three months before I let my mustache grow.
I let it grow out to its fullest, peach fuzziest, glossiest length. Then I went to the drive-in movie with Mike. He waited until halfway through the movie to kiss me. After the kiss, I turned on the car’s interior light and raised an eyebrow.
“See anything different about me?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Look,” I said, pointing to my upper lip. “I have more facial hair than you.”
He squawked and pressed himself against the door as far away from me as he could get.
“I’m going to tell everyone you kissed a girl with a mustache,” I said getting out of the car, firmly shutting the door and walking away.
It was a long walk home that night, but worth it. I had found out something important. And that something was: Revenge feels good.
It wasn’t long after that I started dating girls. They liked my mustache. It tickled.
Guaranteed to tickle your funny bone!
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