There is a 'tache in the affairs of men...

Dear readers,

Today we consider the vexed issue of men's facial hair. Since the beginning of the summer break, I have forsworn the razor where my upper lip is concerned, and am now sporting a small but definite moustache. I had been meaning to experiment in this way for a few years, but there had always been some obstacle during the difficult "scruffy" phase, usually weddings to go to. This year, with a free run, I have taken the plunge.

I should state at the outset that the choice of moustache over any other type of facial hair was dictated to me by good old Mother Nature. My beard growth is patchy at best, and the upper lip is the only area with sufficiently consistent growth to sustain it. In other circumstances I should certainly have tried a full beard, though not, I think, a goatee. A mere matter of personal preference.

Growing a moustache is not a particularly fun process. Looking scruffy and/or adolescent is inevitable for a time, though the length of this stage depends on one's rate of beard growth. But it will pass. By far the most daunting step is meeting people whom one knows for the first time avec 'tache. (One's nearest and dearest will see it in the stages on development and will either sympathise or mock according to their temperament.) It is bound to occasion comment - one colleague asked me "What's that on your face?" - and if you are a shy and retiring type, facial hair is not for you. But if you read this blog, I assume that you are prepared to withstand a degree of scrutiny from others, so it should not be a problem.

First-timers may assume that growing facial hair will lessen the burden of the morning shave; one is, after all, removing less hair. Alas, not so. If one is sporting a full and bushy beard, then perhaps the grooming regime will be shorter. Anything else requires its fair share of upkeep. In the case of the moustache, the ends need to be kept tidy, the length needs to be monitored, and there will be a lot of agonising about whether each side is even. (This is a worry which will never go away, in my experience.)

So, to the wearing of the moustache. One of the oddest things I have found is that moustache-wearers are part of a strange sort of fraternity. There seems to be joining procedure, nor any choice in the matter; but one finds that curt nods and knowing glances are exchanged between the wearers of the moustache. Perhaps I am being hit on regularly without realising. But the same sort of mutual - is it respect? Is it admiration? - feeling is found between hat wearers, all too rare these days.

As for public reception, I have found it to be much more positive than I had feared it might be. A lot of people are taken aback initially, for the moustache is a relatively rarity these days, but most people I know have been very kind, or very disingenuous. Admittedly, I have tended to interpret most comments in the most generous light; is being compared to Lord Lucan a good thing? He was a dapper man but he was also probably a murderer. Peter Bowles was another comparator, while another friend still said I looked like I'd lost my Spitfire. All of these bouquets (or are they brickbats?) I am happy to accept.

One must accept, though, that in the modern world the moustache is a rarity and therefore a statement of intent. I like to think that it harks back to the era of film star glamour, of the 1920s and 1930s, of Ronald Coleman, Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Anthony Eden (see below). Others may disagree. The late Freddy Mercury has forever given a decently-sized moustache the whiff of homosexuality, completing the job begun by the Village People. But in the final analysis, I am glad I've grown it, and, for the moment, it's staying. One should always try new experiences where possible, take the road less travelled. If you have never tried growing facial hair, give it a go. The best thing is, if you don't like it, you can always shave it off and start again from scratch. What have you got to lose?

A final note. I write this from the back garden of a house in Connecticut, the sun beating down and a glass (or three) of red wine at my right hand. But all things must change. Tomorrow is the return to Blighty, and then work looms large. Ah well.