Grunge mustache
I set a Nirvana song as my alarm.
The next morning, the music played at the scheduled time, and I woke up to the sound of grunge guitars.
I was alone. No—actually, I’m never alone. I have my mustache.
I stood in front of the mirror. The mirror.
I mean, one can only really look into a single mirror—The Mirror. It’s binary in nature: true or false.
“See ya!” a woman’s voice called out. I peeked out. Who was that stunning woman walking down my hallway? She had just left my room. Had she spent the night with me? Awesome! I think.
All I could remember was a night at the theater, my ironed Italian shirt, my shoes. Could be! Why not?
I returned to the mirror smiling, but I had to lower my head. It wasn’t me. It was the mustache.
I took a breath and looked up. That’s it. That’s how it works. Mustache or no mustache. True or false.
“What do you want from me, mustache?” I shouted. “You’ve already been with her,” I confirmed, pointing down the hallway.
The good thing about asking mustaches that don’t answer is that eventually you stop asking and start taking action. Angry, energized.
Nimbly, I grabbed the razor from the shelf. But I paused, thoughtful. The mustache was thick—it would surely clog the blade.
Like a soldier grabbing his backup weapon, I reached for the scissors. I still didn’t have the courage.
The comb, however, did its job. That wild, morning mustache was tamed.
Suddenly, the protagonist of this whole story stepped calmly away from the mirror and changed the Nirvana song, like someone trying to change their life.
The man put on his Italian shirt and his shoes and ran down the hallway in search of the stunning woman.
Luckily, she was still outside, waiting for an Uber. The man got in the car with her. Maybe they kissed passionately, maybe they asked the driver to play a song. Nobody knows. Nothing could be seen from the outside through the car’s tinted windows.
From above, behind the window, the mustache closed the curtains like someone crossing their arms. There was nothing left to see.