Andrew Kay: A tache eh?
Face fungus or face furniture – call it what you will, my moustache has been around for some time now. I first grew one back in the early 1980s, I was about 26 and, up until that point, shaving had not played a significant part in my life. In truth it had played no part as I only started to shave when I was 25, I was a very late developer in that sense.
My first moustache was an act of bravado, a massive “See I can do it!” to all of my hairy friends, and let’s face it, at that point all gay men had grown a moustache – as if in affirmation of their masculinity. They sprouted from the upper lips of men across the gay world almost as quickly as the Lacoste polo shirt was adopted as a gay uniform. I was pretty bad at that kind of conformity, so unlike the hefty yard brush taches of the many, I grew a rather sleek little pencil line job that made me look like a gay spiv. That was okay as I was never going to do the whole Lacoste drag thing anyway. No, I was happier in my cream charity shop Saks Of Fifth Avenue Tuxedo and knee length black leather boots – well I liked to stand out, even then.
“His tache has a name, but not one I can commit to print (even in French)”
Oh, I did try to blend in from time to time, but my pink plaid shirt and white Katharine Hamnett jeans just didn’t look the same as the Levi 501s and workmen’s shirts favoured by so many of my friends. And my favoured outfits from Bodymap and World’s End… well, let’s just say that they set me apart from the uniformed ranks of gay society at that time.
The one constant though became my moustache and since then it has almost always been there, nestling under my great big nose.
I started curling it with moustache wax as soon as it was substantial enough to take it, which was about another five years on. At first I bought a tinted wax I found in Trumpers on Jermyn Street. It worked a treat, teasing the tips into fine little curlicues, neatly defined.
Then one rainy day I discovered the shortcomings of tinted moustache wax. It was water based and, as the driving drizzle hit my face, the wax dissolved and ran down my face in sorry streaks. My mouth looked like the weeping eye of Dusty Springfield. After that I took to a neutral wax and have stuck to it ever since.
But I am now pondering the future of my tache. Earlier this year I shaved it off to go on holiday. You would have thought that I had lopped off an ear such was the reaction. I had no idea that the tache was such an important part of my personality – no, really, the reaction was in some cases that extreme. Who would have thought that a clutch of teased whiskers on my upper lip would cause such a fuss?
Having no tache on holiday was a joy, no waxing required, a real relief when you spend the day dipping into the Aegean or eating ice cream (the real test for the seasoned tache sporter).
No, I rather liked being tache free, and I even got a tan on my upper lip!
But two months on and it is back, and bushier than ever at the moment as I have yet to take the scissors to it and tame it into shape. I spent two days in Lyon recently visiting my chef mate, the moustachioed Lean Louis Gelin. My word, his tache is a triumph and a much loved feature of his face. It has a name too, but not one I can commit to print (even in French).
His tache puts mine to shame, it’s a monster of a job that I will never match, although I did note that it was invariably speckled with food and wine. Please, if you ever see me with food in my tache, do let me know.
So do I keep it? Or do I shave it off? I’m torn, it’s not like it’s that unusual any more, Brighton is full of men with waxed moustaches now and I have even spotted a few in darkest Hove. Maybe I’ll give it a few months and see what the autumn brings, it may fall off then with the leaves and the rest of the hair on the top of my rapidly balding pate.
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