“I have a mustache. I am invincible.”
It was only the week before last I sent the cryptic text to my landlord, and my, how things have escalated.
I stretched my social comfort zone and went to the History club’s pub night; a Soviet Bloc Party.
After playing audience to my usual habit of bemoaning scary social situations to psych myself up, my landlord sent a cheer-up text halfway to my time goal. (Yes, I set time goals. You can ask me about it later.)
I was in the middle of cutting a fake mustache in half to stick to my eyebrows and re-pressing the black strip of fur stationed below my nose when she texted. I loved that she did. But between having a dear friend with me, spending time with more friends (who are becoming dearer all the time), and enjoying the general cleverness and puns of the history people, I was having a grande olde time.
I had overreacted, as usual. The history people are not to be scared of. They are very nice, enjoyable, clever people indeed.
And I have to say, the moustaches were fun. They were the perfect icebreaker and they pulled out the goofy in me, despite my usual tendency to avoid such bristly upper-lip decorations. It was a bonding experience for my friend and I and a delight to join friends in a setting outside the classroom, getting to know some faces at a new level.
I was thankful for that stash of ‘staches; let the record show.
(They are overrated in society, in my opinion, but I won’t get into that now.)
And now only a fortnight later, it seems the facial hair fad has caught up to me once again.
But this time
it happened in full force…