Thanks all for the condolences, The Internet! I am constantly stunned and gratified by just how full of very nice people you are. I am very sad, but a-ok, on the whole. There is just too much life going on right now to really dwell on it.
This past weekend was positively nutty. It began on Thursday with a scattered two hours of sleep and a long flight, before I landed in Syracuse and surprised Taylor. That was followed by a whirlwind four days of graduations (of which there were three), affably drunk acquaintances (of which there were decidedly more than three), and less sleep than one typically needs to survive the first two circumstances. Taylor had a slightly glazed expression the entire weekend, the result of a straight month of non-stop undergraduate-ending work. Every once in awhile, he would slowly shake his head, attempt to focus his eyes, kiss my nose and say, “I’m so happy you’re here.” And that made the entire weekend worth it.
The other thing that makes it worth it is called the airport.
Part of me, admittedly a large part, hates the airport. I hate the airport for the same reasons I hate the dentist’s office. When I am there, I am usually subjected to discomfort, worry, and people sticking their hands in places I don’t want any hands in. My response is purely Pavlonian. Despite these things, though, I have a certain affection for airports that comes from the outrageous variety of people in them. I had a two hour conversation with a man (hello, Ryland!) who worked in the Department of Defense and had seen every episode of Doctor Who. I accepted gum from a seventy-five year old woman with a spiked mullet whose name I don’t know, but I imagine it to be ‘Bulldog’. And I saw mustaches, so many mustaches, clean mustaches, patchy mustaches, long mustaches, short mustaches, vanilla mustaches, mustaches with panache, mustaches held firmly in place by some foreign glue and mustaches that seemed on the brink of making a break for it.
As you can tell, I have a somewhat morbid fascination with mustaches. I examine mustaches in much the same way that people examine those eyeless fish in the darkest parts of the ocean. I do not find them alluring, merely interesting. How did man come to rely on the mustache? Through what evolutionary trial does the individual dude come to the decision that a mustache is necessary for his well-being? I can see no good reason for the mustache, and so I am fascinated by it, as well as its numerous shapes and forms. And the airport is an exceptional place to go mustache-watching.
My favorite of this trip belonged to a man whom I silently named ‘Floyd’. He was tall, with a white T-shirt that sloped over his burgeoning beer belly and tucked into his jeans. The top of his head was bald, but a full fringe of brown hair curled down behind his ears to his shoulders. Floyd had a pair of eyeglasses that he apparently bought from an eighty year old woman. The rose tint was especially flattering against the wrinkled leather that spread over his face. But these are not the interesting things about my friend Floyd. The interesting thing about Floyd was an epic, flowing mustache, silky as it grew from under his nose, but bushier as it curled around the corners of his lips. It was thick. It was luxurious. It was something like an unusually burly Fu-Man-Chu. It was the mustache of a man who hunts possum and eats it with rosemary and an appropriate wine.
The mustache itself, though, looked like it was rather uncomfortable with Floyd, and seemed to struggle towards escape. Every time I caught sight of him, the mustache was pulling in a different direction. Down, sometimes. To the left. Curling up towards the nostrils in a desperate attempt to suffocate its bearer. I felt bad for that mustache, as an independent entity.
This post derailed somewhere.
What are your thoughts on the mustache? Noble? Disgusting? If there are any men out there, I would particularly like to hear the motivations a man experiences towards mustachery. Because, Internet, there is something that I am missing here.