What is it with all these wispy moustaches suddenly decorating young men’s faces? These things, which have crawled their way on to so many upper lips, aren’t fully formed moustaches. There’s no depth to them. They’re straggly, patchy, with skin showing through them. They look as though their owners aren’t fully committed to them. Or, worse, that they are trying their best, but this apology of a moustache is all they can manage. It’s the kind of moustache you grow when puberty first makes it possible to do so, the debut facial hair with which you aim to convince publicans that you’re old enough to be served alcohol.
The only thing I can say in their favour is that they are at least equal opportunity moustaches, in that even those who can’t muster much in the way of facial hair can have a fair crack at producing one of these. But otherwise, my firm view on moustaches, for the infinitesimally little it’s worth, is to go big or go home. I’m working on a documentary about Sir Edward Elgar. Now that’s what I call a moustache. Full, bushy, yet neat. A veritable symphony of bristle. It may be that spending so much time with Sir Edward lately is what led me to suddenly start seeing these miserable creepy-crawlies sullying faces everywhere.
