There's something on your face.

That's what the wag (or so he thinks of himself) on my crew said to me about my mustache.  The jokes which the people at bowling told me didn't even make sense.  The good news is that my barber said he can get rid of it for me when I'm done with it.

At two weeks after beginning, the hairs in my mustache are now kind of soft, rather than bristly.  Still, it's weird, trying to scratch an itch and realizing there's something between my finger and my face, or drinking and feeling the outermost hairs rubbing against the curve of the glass.

The other day, I looked in the mirror and thought I might pass for Dr. Watson.  The next day, I resembled a stock, English, ex-military man, kind of like the customer in Are You Being Served? who said, "It's a pity they discontinued national service" (not Captain Peacock, whom the cafeteria manager once described as "the uppity one with the moth-eaten 'tache").

Yes, I know Betty requested pictures.  I do have my anonymity to protect, though.  I suppose I could stand in front of a mirror and use the camera itself to block the upper half of my face.  Or maybe I can use whatever image-altering software is on my computer to crop out everything but my mustache.  First, I have to convince myself to do it.  After all, if the camera adds ten pounds to my weight, and if the mustache adds ten years to my age, do I really want all of you seeing me like that?