| As a young child, I always equated the manly mustache with power. This is more than likely due to the fact that my dad sported a full-on, bushy Burt Reynolds-esque 'stache (circa his seventies Smokey & The Bandit manliest-of-men era) the likes of which struck both fear and awe into me. Not the pencil thin, sleazy number, nor some arching down past the corners of the mouth biker thing--it's nearly forever been the perfectly stern and macho in-between. I only remember my pa' not sporting the look once, when I was four or so. It scared the piss out of me, and--though not because of this, but for his own mysterious reasons--Dad's rocked the mustachioed look ever since, current facial hair trends be damned.
As a coping mechanism, or perhaps a way to deal with the frightfully hypnotic power of mustaches, I started mocking them in all forms from my teen years on. Inheriting my dad's amazing facial hair growth powers, I'd sported various goatees, Van Dykes, soul patches, and even a full-on beard that somehow made me look both crazy and about ten years older than my actual age of thirty-seven. That Grizzly Adams look was for my otherwise simple Halloween costume this year. (Richie Tenenbaum, pre-suicide attempt.) After not winning my work costume contest, though, it was time to bust out the heavy-duty clippers and do some serious facial man-scaping.
I furiously clipped and shaved nearly my entire face--cheeks, chin, and neck--to my usual post-shave sandpaper smooth. The hair above my upper lip, however, mysteriously remained. It was then, on that fateful night, that I decided to sport a mustache... for exactly one day.
 My 'stache wasn't quite as bushy or full as my pa's (though it had the potential), but there was no denying that it was a true mustache. 'Twas a near-glorious sight to behold, and I wondered how my friends and co-workers would react. It caused my esteemed lady friend to laugh as well as become oddly compelled, near the point of arousal, at the same time. It was then that we both realized it was powerful facial hair. Then she just started laughing anew and implored me to shave it clean. "One day mustachioed is all I ask," I intoned. Under the peculiar spell of the lip hair, she nodded, not understanding in an intellectual sense, but more a spiritual one.
Arriving at work the next day, before my officemates, I sat at the computer and began my daily work, as if I was regular old me again, clean shaven and looking barely a day past thirty-five. Inside, tough, I could feel a stirring sense of empowerment and also noticed I was able to type ten words a minute faster than pre-mustache with 75% less typos. Was this from the mustache itself or just a psychosomatic placebo effect? I didn't know, nor was I sure it mattered.
My boss was the first to discover my newly groomed facial hair machismo, and after his hysterical laughter subsided, he offered me a promotion with a raise. I declined, theorizing that as soon as the mustache was gone, he'd renege, citing mustache-induced insanity. Best for us both to simply avoid the whole ordeal, I instinctively decided.
My other co-workers had similar reactions to varying degrees. Offers to lighten my workload as well as buy me coffee were all politely declined. They weren't thinking with rational minds; the mustache was clouding their judgment, and I felt it would be wrong of me to take advantage of their worshipfulness whilst knowing that, come the next morning, the no-man's land betwixt my pouty upper lip an strong, Romanesque nose would be hairless.
Sure, I could've let my manager buy me that lobster and steak lunch, and I would've enjoyed the iPod my officemate tried mightily to bestow upon me. It just would've been improper, though. Stan Lee's fateful words, "With great power comes great responsibility," had never rung more true to me. Peter Parker learned the hard way that seeking fame and fortune with one's superior powers can lead to tragedy, and though I don't have an Uncle Ben to get shot by some two-bit crook I could've easily stopped had my pride not gotten in the way after my kickass wrestling debut, I thought it best not to risk it. I'd tempted fate by just keeping the mustache in the first place. A harsh mistress, fate. I felt it best not to tempt her again.
 When I took one of my many bathroom breaks (while the rest of my body grew after birth, my bladder, sadly, did not), however, the mustache began tempting me. I felt an odd presence... an urge to take that promotion and iPod and all the other offerings. Quickly, I splashed cold water on my face, trying to snap out of it. But when I glanced up into the mirror, I saw not me, but MUSTACHIOED ME. He was a powerful man, and he compelled me to give into my basest desires... desires which the mustache afforded me the power to easily realize.
"You deserves that promotion and the free coffees," Mustachioed Me hissed. "Takes it! Takes it all!"
"No... I-- I can't," I weakly retorted.
"Takes it all and more!" Mustachioed Me commanded.
"... Mmm--more?"
"You could have anythings you ever wanted! Power, fame, fortune-- just use the power my the precious mustache..."
I suddenly noticed that my shaky hand had been gently caressing the mustache for some time, without my realizing it. "My... my prescioussssss..." I hissed.
Suddenly, the toilet in the stall behind me flushed. Who was in there?! And for how long?? In a panic, I looked up at the mirror, but it was no longer Mustachioed Me looking back, merely a confused and frightened me with a mustache. Quickly, I darted from the bathroom, only to find all of my co-workers in the hall waiting for me, bearing offerings of money, burritos, raises, and first borns.
"No!" I bellowed, covering my mustache with my arm. "Look way from the 'stache! It's like the sun yet will burn not only the retinas of your eyes but those of your very souls as well!"
So transfixed by the mustache, no one even questioned my odd "souls have retinas" phrasing. Furiously, I pushed through the adoring mob, shunning everything but the carnitas burrito offered to me by the Senior VP of my department.
"'Tis the power of the mustache that compels you!" I cried through large bites of burrito. "Fight it! You must... FIGHT IT!"
 But they merely stared at me in euphoric awe. Not knowing what else to do, I fled.
At home, my lady friend was waiting for me with piles upon piles of comic books. When I inquired what was going on, she replied, "I didn't know which ones you collect, so I maxed out my credit cards to buy you one of each at the dork store." There was something off in her voice, and her next statement explained why. "By the way," she said, "I was thinking that you should keep the mustache."
"Awe hell's naw!" I shouted and made a beeline for the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I grabbed the shaving cream. It took all my might, but I knew I was incapable of handling the enormous power and temptations that came with a mustache. I had no idea how my dad and seventies-era Burt Reynolds could handle it, but, to no one's surprise, I was clearly not half the macho man they were and forever shall be when mustachioed.
Clean shaven, I exited the bathroom. M'lady looked up at me, frowning. "You didn't take a shit in there, did you?"
I sighed in relief. All was back to normal.
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