The mustachioed menace

Something about a man with facial hair really gets me going... I'd like to think that maybe it's my way of rebelling against the prepubescent man-boy male stereotype I so fondly remember lusting after in the 90s.

MMMMMM... That's some kind of man.

  

The problem isn't finding a man with something growing on his face, because heaven knows there's a surplus of guys with chin straps (or as I like to call them "Douche Stripes"). Or guys with a soul patch... which should really be called the sole patch instead (because, really, who wants to date someone with hair that looks like nesting hamster babies.) 

My problem is finding a man that with accept my facial hair in all of its glory. Ok, my mustache might be a stick on, but I've grown accustomed to it. Nothing brightens up a day like a a french pencil line, or a Clark Gable. 

Pictured: "The Gentleman Caller" 

The way I see it, men should just be glad that it's not a real one, meaning I wax even though the hairs are blond. I hate to have my chin whiskers glistening in the sunlight.

True story, bleaching isn't invisibility cream.

My love of all things mustache is part of what makes me... me. And I'm pretty sure its darn sexy, well, at least not Quasimodo-esq.