*this post was inspired by miss Julie M.
It used to mean the first chunk of advent candy, the Santa-Claus-Countdown's commencement, sheets of fresh snow and the onset of panic at the mall. It'd be the day the decorations were deemed necessary, the kitchen reeked of sugary cinnamon buns, and the final bad preschool-crafted ornament was hung on our otherwise perfect tree.
Then, puberty struck.
Brothers, boyfriends, buddies who more resemble little boys all began the journey to grow some semblance of a facial forest for that long, hard month of Novemeber. Facial hair competitions no longer just reserved for playoff beards, testosterone-toting men took it to extremes (no names will be mentioned). Some, for an unselfish cause, but more, 'cause they could look like southern-state pedophiles and art-house whack jobs without man-to-man judgment. Nay, it's a chance for a man to give another a "dude, you look goooood" without getting a cut-eye in return. A pat on the back that says, "man, you are a man. I can see your testosterone growing out of your upper lip. Let's go life some weights, but only to get huge and ripped upper bodies while we still have stringy chicken legs." That was Movember 2009.
And now, on the first of the last month us of the (mostly) less hairy kind have a whole new reason to rejoice. Nothing to do with holiday happiness, only scruff-less gents and bare-chinned chums. A return to dating dashing young men and not bearded bums. In December, Santa Claus reserves his spot as the only man allowed to have a shrubbery shrouding his fine features.
And if he's not the only one, you might find me, running down the street with scissors.
There are, however—and let me stress—a select few Movemeber members who did it with good fashion, and for them, I offer up a humble tribute. But allow me to make my case clear—if your moustache doesn't reach these levels of majesty, save it 'till next year or face eleven months of severe ostracization by womankind.
(via http://www.alanpowdrill.com/)
