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Why I name my moustache

Mental escapades of TPR (An alter ego)


Disclaimer - all in good fun



In a world teeming with endless absurdities, the question of naming one's moustache might seem trivial to the uninitiated. But let's dive deeper, shall we? Picture this: a man, a bureaucrat of sorts, navigating the labyrinthine corridors of governmental buildings, his every step echoing with the futility of existence. Now imagine this same man with a moustache named "The Administrator." Suddenly, he isn't merely a cog in the vast machinery of the state; he is a figure of mythic proportions, his moustache a symbol of his authority, his resistance against the inevitable tide of insignificance.


Consider the case of our dear departed Hariram, who, in the most unremarkable town of Ramgarh, decided to name his moustache "Maharaja." Hariram, a clerk with the charisma of a wet sock and the aspirations of a rock, found that his life took on a peculiar sheen once "Maharaja" entered the scene. His colleagues, who once ignored his very existence, began to address him with a newfound respect. Women who had previously regarded him as furniture now saw him as a curiosity, perhaps even an enigma. It was as if "Maharaja" had imbued Hariram with a persona far grander than the sum of his parts.


The matter of naming one's moustache, dear reader, is one that has perplexed the minds of men and mystified the hearts of women for centuries. Consider, if you will, the renowned facial embellishments of history—those that could not merely be referred to as "moustaches," but as entities deserving of their own monikers. For what, after all, is a moustache but a small beast perched upon the lip, a symbol of one's personal grandeur?


Imagine the great Salvador Dalí. His whiskers did not simply hang about, willy-nilly; no, they were christened with a flourish befitting their extravagant nature—perhaps "El Curvador" or "Señor Whiskerino." How else could such a pair of flamboyant antennae be explained? Without a name, they would be reduced to mere hairs, but with a name, they became legend, inviting admiration and curiosity from art enthusiasts and passersby alike.


And then there's Friedrich Nietzsche, whose formidable lip foliage could hardly be confined to the pedestrian term "moustache." Surely, it was dubbed "Uberstache," a philosophical companion in its own right, pondering the abyss as deeply as its owner did. Men would stroke their own, far less impressive, moustaches in a gesture of reverence, while women, despite themselves, found a strange allure in the existential bristles.


The moustache, you see, has its own ecosystem. It thrives on attention and admiration, growing with a vigor that defies the mundanity of its owner's life. The moment you name it, you acknowledge its independence, its unique identity. A nameless moustache is a silent soldier, unrecognized and undervalued. But give it a name, like "Colonel Stache" or "The Great Negotiator," and watch it command respect, adoration, even fear.


Take, for instance, a recent encounter I had while ambling through the local marketplace. A particularly officious shopkeeper, notorious for his relentless haggling, took one look at "Inspector Bristle" and paled visibly. His demands for an extra ten rupees melted away faster than ice in the midday sun. The sight of "Inspector Bristle" had evidently convinced him that I was some sort of undercover cop, and he was suddenly the very picture of compliance. It was a scene to behold—his usual bluster reduced to a meek murmur, all thanks to the commanding presence of a named moustache.


But it’s not just about intimidating shopkeepers. There are social benefits as well. Imagine a night out with the boys, a group of friends who, for reasons best known to their barbers, have all opted for either clean-shaven chins or full beards. We sauntered into the local watering hole, a motley crew of ordinary men. And then there was me, and "The Dashing Rogue." The transformation was instantaneous. While my friends were regarded as mere backdrops, I found myself the unintended focal point of the evening. Women, seemingly magnetized, gravitated towards "The Dashing Rogue," their eyes twinkling with curiosity and appreciation. My friends, dear souls though they were, could only watch in bewildered envy as I engaged in spirited conversations, the allure of my named moustache proving irresistible.


One must only look at the annals of history to see the transformative power of a named moustache. Think of the venerable Einstein, whose "Theory of Whiskerativity" could have been the unsung hero behind his scientific breakthroughs. Or consider the stoic visage of Stalin, whose "Comrade Fuzz" likely held more power than any Politburo member ever could.


But it’s not just about the admiration from others. Naming your moustache is a step towards self-realization, an acceptance of the moustache as a co-conspirator in your life's journey. A named moustache asserts its independence. It grows on its own terms, unfettered by the whims of fashion or the demands of society. It’s an acknowledgment of the absurdity of existence, a way to laugh in the face of the daily grind. As you twirl "The Majestic Twirl" or groom "The Distinguished Gentleman," you are engaging in a small act of rebellion, a declaration that you are more than your occupation, more than your mundane routines.


So, gentlemen, do not let your upper lip remain an anonymous patch of fuzz. In the spirit of embracing the whimsical and the profound, name your moustache. Let it be a beacon of individuality in a world that insists on conformity. Allow it to grow on its own terms, and in doing so, let it turn you into a man greater than you were. For in the end, a named moustache is not just a patch of hair—it’s a testament to the grandeur lurking within the ordinary.



Credits - Kitty.

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