‘Mo Brother, Where Art Thou?

Graphic Graeme Shorten Adams

I’m a guy who generally cares, and I try to be involved in different important causes.

For the last few years I’ve been hearing about all the hype with Movember and prostate cancer, and I’ve tried to make it a habit of contributing to the cause.

There’s one minor problem though—despite my furious attempts to grow a moustache, I just can’t do it. I don’t need a Tom Selleck, a d’Artagnan, or a Dali ‘stache—although those are all pretty epic. I would just like to have some type of facial hair growing between my nose and upper lip for 30 days straight to show that I give a damn about prostate cancer.

The other 11 months of the year that patch of skin can stay bare, that’s fine by me. But really, is a bit of fuzz too much to ask for? I don’t think my absent moustache is because I’m young, because in this university I’m considered middle-aged at 27. I also don’t think it’s because I can’t grow facial hair; I have a regular chinstrap that grows at a regular facial hair-growing rate.

My dad had a moustache years ago, and both my grandfathers did too—so why can’t I? Sure, heading into the last few days of Movember with a few measly whiskers is better that nothing, and it shows I gave it my best shot, but is that really good enough?

Well, it might be time to embrace my middle age—and break out the Rogaine.