It’s not my place this say this, but, for the love of God, lose the soup strainer mustache.
Here’s the thing: We had a short fling, you and I. It was not without drama but there were enough happy and, ahem, stimulating memories that I’m glad it happened. I’m delighted to include you in my romantic history.
What’s even better is that we’re still friendly. We’ve chatted amiably when seeing each other at random social events. Sometimes we’ve even engaged in spirited, yet civil, debates on Facebook…and it’s been all good!
What you don’t know is that when your handsome picture appears in my newsfeed, a little part of my brain does a happy dance as it fires off the fleeting thought of, “Hey, I hit that! Go me!”
Or, at least, it used to.
This hasn’t happened since you changed your profile picture to feature THE MUSTACHE.
Why would a good-looking, 30-something guy spoil his sweet face and belie the kindness in his soft, hazel eyes with a thick, hairy specimen better suited to an old-school Soviet dictator? Hon, I know you’re a little kinky but I truly hope the ‘stache isn’t part of some “I’ll be Stalin to your helpless peasant” bedroom role-play scenario. (If it is … wow, did I dodge a bullet!)
You’re an individual and no slave to trends. I get that — it’s one of the things that attracted me to you. And I also know that society unfairly pressures women to meet all sorts of ridiculous aesthetic ideals. I rail against such pressure, so, theoretically, I should also be opposed to subjecting men to arbitrary beauty standards.
Normally, I would be. But it’s different with you.
I got married fairly young, so my romantic repertoire is small. It includes couple of duds, at least in the looks department. You were there beefing up the more attractive side of the spectrum. I’d like you to stay there for the very selfish and pathetic reason that it helps me continue to uphold a vision of myself as someone who, once upon a time, had some game on the dating scene. Maybe not a lot of game, but some.
Yet when I see that mustache picture, the only kind of game that comes to mind is a wish-fulfillment version of Clue: You’re Col. Mustard, with the knife, in the bathroom, murdering your own facial hair.
So please, for my sake and for the sake of all the other women who would like to preserve their sexy memories of you, get rid of the goddamn mustache.
An Ex Willing to Buy You a Fancy Razor