Toothbrush Mustache

There is an ugly rumor going around on the return of the mustache-wearing male in 1970 found its way into the 21st century. Is it a game at the time metrosexual? Is this a way for "regular guy" to recover his masculinity? Is this a way to make the food stuck to the face of a man who is acceptable?

As a single woman, I strongly object to this horrible trend.

I'm not going to throw around accusations against careless facial hair. It just would not be fair. Instead, my approach will be fair and balanced. You know, the style made famous by reports Fox News.

For starters, the mustache reminds me of 1970s porn. As a kid, I was not always able to recognize the vital parts of the body through the scrambled Playboy Channel, but I could always tell whether the man wore a mustache. Not a sexy scene, my friends.

Collage on the theme of the 1970s, my father wore a mustache at the time, and I do not want to date a man who resembles him. By taking the path Father complex theory too far.

More importantly, I have very sensitive skin. In fact, so sensitive that I went on a date with a man who had facial hair and after three hours of lip smacking, my skin became so irritated that I developed a rash. Of course you can argue that the rash is due to the marathon session during make-out, not the mustache itself, but this time is not being logical. Keep the subject of this post where it belongs, on the return of ill-conceived mustache.

I am not informed, I am against all mustaches.

Pencil mustache? Not at all. This reminds me of John Waters.

Toothbrush? Uh, no. Charlie Chaplin donned it there for a reason: it's funny looking.

Horseshoe mustache style? Nice try. Hulk Hogan can get away with it because the wrestlers are cartoon-like.

Magnum PI mustache? Oh, now you're playing dirty (I like it), but chances are that you do not look like Tom Selleck. Psssssst. If you share his rugged good looks, e-mail me your numbers.

Guys, believe me. I will not steer you wrong. There is a reason for the mustache trend died a slow death. Here's a hint: men are not supposed to be walking buffets to choose from an assortment of snacks late night trapped in their hippielips.

I'm just saying.