There’s something lastima-inducing about a mustache to begin with. It’s a colony of hairs grouped together. In a line. On your face. Decorating the entrance to your mouth.
Curly tips, neat, or bushy, it softens a heart to see one. To see one bouncing up and down as you talk. To see one curving higher with a smile. To see one turning gray. I believe the only exception to my mustache-equals-lastima rule is maybe Hitler’s.
Eating with people is hard for me. If they get food on their shirts or teeth, I have to spend all my energy fighting back tears and have very little left for digesting. Once a friend of my mom’s had hummus on her ear during a lunch, and I cried about it afterwards for three days. But if you get food on your mustache, all bets are off. I simply won’t be able to fake it or to let it go or to go on. I will have to clean the stache. I will protect you from the horror of tasting old omelet on your lip-hairs an hour later, and from being the guy with egg on your face. I will imagine when you shave the damn thing off out of frustration and then you’ll look like a little naked worm, and it will make me want to hold your mustache in my arms and cherish it forever.
Keep it, we’ve grown accustomed to you with it. Just find a good friend with lastima who will wipe your mouth as needed. Or call me and I’ll be there. I may not be able to make it through the meal, but I’ll be there.
p.s. Even Hitler got food on his face once in a while! :(