A tale of two "mustaches"
Decider pays lip service for charity
The judges christen a new contestant
David Wolinsky: In the course of my life, I've probably grown, like, 12 intentional mustaches. The rest of the time, people were only seeing the results of my not shaving for short periods of time. It was never anything impressive; certainly nothing to make a big to-do about. But when after-school tutoring center 826CHI announced its third annual, monthlong Moustache-a-thon—a moustache growing competition that benefits 826 via personal sponsors—it seemed like reason enough to stop dragging a razor across my face for four weeks. Besides, it'll be extra protection against the brutal winter temperatures from now through Feb. 18.
Now, with a Moustache-a-thon, you'd think the rules would be pretty simple, right? Just show up and stop shaving. That's what we thought, until Outreach Coordinator Patrick Shaffner sent us an e-mail outlining the competition's seven loose steps to being a part of the festivities:
“Here's the skinny:
1. You shave your face clean and show up to our kickoff [on Jan. 14].
2. We take your picture.
3. We put that picture on our moustache website.
4. Like any good walkathon etc, people sponsor (by clicking a donation button below your picture) your moustache. All that scratch goes to our creative writing and tutoring lab.
5. The following Wednesdays (through mid-Feb) we meet. Drink. And take your picture. The pictures go on the website, so people can continue to chart your progress.
6. Prizes are distributed for best growth, most sponsors, most $$$, etc etc.
[optional] 7. You like your moustache so much you never, ever shave it off.”
2. We take your picture.
3. We put that picture on our moustache website.
4. Like any good walkathon etc, people sponsor (by clicking a donation button below your picture) your moustache. All that scratch goes to our creative writing and tutoring lab.
5. The following Wednesdays (through mid-Feb) we meet. Drink. And take your picture. The pictures go on the website, so people can continue to chart your progress.
6. Prizes are distributed for best growth, most sponsors, most $$$, etc etc.
[optional] 7. You like your moustache so much you never, ever shave it off.”
There's another wrinkle on this, too: The competition is open to men and women. Impossible, you say? Not quite. The ladies are given weekly challenges to accomplish in lieu of growing furry upper lips. The following week's epic quest won't be revealed until the meeting, though judging by the first challenge, they seem like they'll be considerably harder than just letting your face go for a while--the ladies have to take photographs of themselves on the streets of Chicago with mustachioed strangers. Extra points are rewarded for famous 'staches, and all photos will be scrutinized to make sure there's been no hasty Microsoft Paint or masterful Photoshop funny business.
When Steve Heisler and I joined up, we had made a gentleman's agreement to grow mustaches and blog about the experience. Then, suddenly, Steve chickened out and decided to go the prosthetic route, which Shaffner later told us is history of sorts for the competition. In an e-mail he sent us, he writes, “Steve is not the first man. But kind of is. Jeremy S. is also competing in the prosthetic division. We had a guy switch sides last year from prosthetic to organic, though he wasn't prosthetic long enough to really be prosthetically active.”
There's a two-week “growing” period until the next meeting next Wednesday, (“As we've found out from previous years, not a whole lot happens in one week,” said Shaffner), but, so far, the competition just seems like a flimsy excuse to hang out with strangers and drink beer. We're a little skeptical that a meaningful bond can be forged through the simple act of not shaving. By that logic, we should be tight with “Hollywood” Hulk Hogan, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Ron Jeremy. On the other hand, this competition has just started. In a month, we might feel an eerie psychic bond with them that will later be turned into an adequate screenplay.
The first night was pretty laidback. Everyone nervously milled around, enjoying alcohol and baked goods, getting their photographs taken for the Moustache-a-thon's creepy-looking “grower's page,” (we don't have any money yet, by the way) before finally being ushered to their seats to be explained the rules that we've already explained above. The night drew to a close with each entrant going before two of the three sacred, wisecracking judges and giving their specious reasons for growing a mustache. Obviously, it's to benefit 826CHI, but mostly everyone talked smack and mentioned Tom Selleck. We know prizes will be awarded at each meeting for the best moustaches, but it's still not clear what they're looking for. We also coined the phrases “face sweater” and “hair snake” as euphemisms for mustaches. Nobody made any mustache-ride jokes.
Steve Heisler: If I can interject for a moment… Yeah, I chickened out I suppose. If by "chickened out" you really mean "decided to go another route that sounded a lot more fun/blogworthy," then, yeah, I "chickened out." Upon first hearing about this event, I was all-in—what's a few weeks with weird facial hair among friends? But sitting there, surrounded by devotees of the sacred 'stache, all eager to start the growing process (one guy was even doing so despite his girlfriend's habit of briskly changing the subject every time he brought it up), I felt out of place. Did I have what it took? Would my moustache be as patchy/embarrassing as the rest of my facial hair? Am I "that guy?"
I started to get nervous.
But that's when Patrick shed some light on what "prosthetic" really means. When Wolinsky first told me about the option, I assumed it was some crafty project—make a moustache out of not-hair, and wear it around. I had a vision of myself donning a contraption made out of old circuit boards, lighting up my lip with the pulsating light of little attached red bulbs. It was the kind of thing I'd imagine Rudolph growing, or at least his cyborg equivalent.
Turns out, the prosthetic category is actually a mission-of-the-week sort of deal. David mentioned that there's a two-week growing period to kick things off, during which time the other contestants are tasked with taking as many pictured with mustachioed people as they can. Bonus points are awarded for getting your arm around the person, and even more if that person happens to be a celebrity. The ultimate prize, though, would be awarded to the lucky gentleman/woman who snagged a photo with Roland Burris, that elusive son-of-a-gun. They reassured us that it was a pipe dream—that, really, it couldn't be done—and that only a real loser would even attempt such a score.
I made that last part up, but nevertheless, I wanted that loser to be me.
So, with a bit of relief, I made the decision to switch teams, not knowing that I was inadvertently making history. I'll be writing about my adventures in this and future challenges—on top of my envy of David's inevitably glorious hair snake. Check back soon for more from David's point of view, too.
