Friday, November 18, 2011

And hast thou slain the mustache? Callooh! Callay!

For much of 2011, a beast has occupied my face, a rover of the upper-lip border, a mustache creature that has perched there, taunting family and friends. It was the one who had made moor, fen, and fastness of my visage. The mustache! The mustache! O furry creature baring my own teeth! The time finally came to slay the monster.

With a god-forged blade I nicknamed Beowulf, I approached stealthily in the early morning while the beast was sleepy. First came the soaking in hot water, which momentarily confused and lulled the creature, who enjoyed the hot water and the thorough soaking. The creature had regularly submitted to grooming, vain beast that it was, and assumed it was going to receive more loving care. It languidly stretched and writhed with pleasure as I applied the shaving soap, rubbing and massaging the creature down to the skin.

And then, with little announcement or fanfare, I wielded Beowulf and proceeded to attack. I suppose to be true to Beowulf's duel with Grendel, I should have plucked the beast by hand, hair by hair, but there was no bearing such torment. No, I am not made of Beo's mettle. I wielded my vorpal blade and snicker-snack it went. One two, one two, and through and through!

The beast twitched. Then it pitched. It moaned and it bitched. It yelled a blood-curdling yell as one bewitched.

Much to my surprise, it then mobilized and launched its counter-attack with a leap and roar.

"'Struth!!" I cried as the mustache brought me to the floor, and I lost my grip on the blade. Prickly hairs proceeded to launch the death of a thousand little stabs as I screamed and rolled over with the loathsome creature in my arms. It tore my flesh as if I were making love to a yucca but I was undaunted. The weapon, my trusty brand new razor with the truest edge a hero would ever need, came back to my reach and the upper hand was mine again.

It ran for its life, cowering in the pantry, and I chased it to the laundry room. It vaulted the laundry machine, made its way to the hall and was headed towards the front door when I hurled myself at it, trusting courage and providence, and with a terrible crash that shook the house I had the creature pinned.

Out came the blade once more, glinting in sunshine tinted by the stained glass above, and stroke by stroke the beast fell. I rose to my feet, blade wet with water, soap, and lifeless bits of hair, bedraggled, unsure even that I lived still. Was this the underworld? Did I live?

It was the fresh air on my clean lip that restored me, a fresh fall breeze. In a looking glass I spied my face again, free. The beast was gone. But the true epic hero knows that the great beasts are timeless and may return at any time.

The blade Beowulf takes its place in the green cabinet of the bathroom, restful yet ready for the next confrontation.


Mandy_Fish said...

They will sing of your triumph in the meadhall for generations to come.

Algernon said...

Arrrr, I hope so, lass.

Kelly said...

Such an entertaining post!