The Mustache Who Saved Christmas or: A Hairy Situation

So, to celebrate, I present you with one of my occasional attempts at poetry. Here’s the story of another time when the Christmas spirit was saved, inspired by my girlfriend’s nickname for me as well as, possibly, too much pasta just before bedtime.




Mustaches were once a society must

you can see one on every Civil War bust.

Burt Reynolds had one as he sped in that car

and they were common on just about every porn star.

(Well, the male ones.)


Today they’re so rare, and not to be mean:

Even Nancy Pelosi’s can barely be seen.

Mustaches had gone out of style, you see,

although some are still out there — for instance, on me.


Even Abraham Lincoln, who grew (for PR),

on the urging of a kid who thought he was a star,

a full beard that covered his homely face

didn’t bother to add a mustache to the place.


So the star of our tale was down in the dumps

because all his kind had been taking their lumps.

He himself wasn’t special in any sort of way

and just that morning he’d discovered a gray.


But late one December, with our friend in the throes

of a dream in which he got sucked up the nose

a noise woke him up, in the early morn hours —

and that’s when he discovered his new Christmas powers.


On the morning of Christmas, they say animals talk,

Tree angels sing, and nutcrackers walk.

But of all the objects that follow that groove,

The craziest thing is when mustaches move.


First he wiggled around, did some dancing in place –

Then he took a big step and leaped right off the face!

Ears wiggled in shock, eyes popped right out,

You should have seen the surprise on the snout


Of the poor sleeping man who had no idea

that his nightmare of balding had become (kinda) real.

But the mustache, my friends, had no clue it had left

An upper lip feeling all nude and bereft.


(Which is a real word, I looked it up.)


Mustache laughed, and he ran, and he yelled “neaner neaner!”

At dangers like candles and the big vacuum cleaner.

You don’t free a mustache, everyone knows –

They’re usually led around by the nose.


He danced in the moonlight, and I’m telling you, friends

His worried had vanished – no tweeze or split ends

Could possibly take this freedom away

That let our hairy friend come out to play.


Ah, but like printing more government money,

A day can’t be all fun, and a mustache all runny

(Which now that I think of it – pretty disgusting.

Maybe my powers of rhyme are all rusting.)


A sound made our mustache friend freeze in his tracks

(You can’t really see stache tracks, except when they’re waxed.)

A figure approached; at first shadowed by gloom,

but then revealed as the hair clog of doom!



It seems more plugs came out, this time of the year

and our friend found himself looking at hair from the ear.

Those wild eyebrow hairs had hopped down from the face,

and underarm hair was stinking the place.


And out in the lead, looking, frankly, quite evil

nose hair massed like a fattened boll weevil.

It took over the lead, and with a nasally hiss

it said “I’m in charge here, and I’m tired of this!”


Mustache drew back, he knew of his neighbor:

The nose hair was meanest of all the hairs, fur sure.

(How would you feel if you were stuck up there?)

This one was so bad he was nicknamed Darth VadHair.


“I’m not going back,” VadHair declared with a sneer

“And you can come with me, from eyebrows and ears.

The rules say when dawn comes we get back on the head.

But we can just run away — if our owner is dead.”


And that’s when Mustache saw he has a task:

to protect sleeping humans from hairy attacks.

He was stuck on his owner; he liked being there

as a middle-aged mouth breather’s favorite hair.


So he ran to the bathroom, and soon had gloves donned,

with a mask, and a hat and a haz mat suit on.

And with infinite care he picked up a cask

the only way he had to accomplish his task.



And when, moments later, Darth VadHair and all

swept their dreaded locks down the length of the hall

Mustache took the bottle from its hiding place

and dashed the contents right in VadHair’s face!


But, instead of melting, or at least getting leaner,

the bad guy grew ten times, and at least three times meaner.

When what he’d done wrong at least reached his brain,

Mustache shrieked out “Oh, crap — it’s ROGAINE!”


He raced back to the bathroom, ahead by a hair

searching through pills and stuff for skin care.

With his best Captain Kirk, he yelled with great dread,

“I need Nair in five minutes, or we’re … all … dead!”


VadHair climbed the dresser, then onto the bed

and reached out for the human’s sweet dreaming head.

What he had planned is frankly appalling —

and I must say it involved some evil hairballing.


The ultimate permanent seemed to be on the way —

But Darth VadHair turned when a voice cried out “hey!”

And with every last fiber our mustachioed hero

flung liquid on VadHair — and made him a zero.


“I’m melting!” cried VadHair, “That’s the end of this mop.

My beautiful evil will never be topped!”

Though he made a quick run to the closest spigot

It was too late to rinse — he’d become a bald spot.


The human awoke to an odd stain on the floor

and his sinuses clearer than ever before.

The rest of his hair’s where it should be today.

And to the ones that were missing? We can only say “yay!”


As for our friend the mustache, the lip’s never bare

thanks to quick thinking that night, and a bottle of Nair.

He’s trimmed, and he’s happy, and he’ll always be here —

Unless someone needs him on Christmas next year.


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