“The Mustache” by Jon Topolski

A dare to grow facial hair – to sculpt and trim and separate hairs from skin to make an adventure into masculinity; testosterone soaked and dirty looking. This is a man, and it’s a dare from other men to try and do that dirty thing, to look more primal than civilized and it’s ok because it’s in. So do it, burn away a clean well-shaped face and bury it with a jungle of history. A symbol of what men can and women cannot do.

I am full grow, the charm of years of growth.
Faux-motorcycle gang member.
Moustache rides for everyone!

Somehow these lines of hair, trimmed and maintained bring smiles and accolades from older and younger men that cannot connect their faces with their chests, that somehow these hairs make you a minor celebrity in small circles; for social circle kicks and giggles. It makes you easily flammable. And itchy. You can see the connection between top and bottom. But not inside and out.

Sean Connery of men packaged and delivered from grace, from breaded black Christ, Middle-Eastern Jesus, Mohammed from the plains, King Arthur in urban outfitters. The in-his-prime Ron Jeremy look-alike, sitting at the bar stalking out for a picture pump.
“Do you have a big dick?” asks the current leg-spreader, the drunk little piece.

Primitive features attract primate mates. Faux-confidence. Not a football player? Get muttonchops and a goatee. Judas, Da Vinci, Roosevelt. No need for a razor to your throat boy! The girl in your beard, she prefers the scratch thing hiding your purple lips. It’s natural.

They cannot connect, all patchy attempts at clean lines, the draw between your cross and the godhead, wherever it may lead you. South or north, warm or cool, a man hides in his own jungles, in your caves and mountains.

You are the new Hector, wielding two spears into battle, glory upon you with Athena on your tale coat; your chariot riot dance party face brings you bosoms and beers. Two spears, one on each cheek to peel away at twisted flesh of patchy men.
Goddamn that’s a nice beard! Are you full of tattoos? Are you a danger? You smile. After all, you must get it a lot. You must be a man for your hair truly grows. Your balls must drag on corpses and blondes must quiver.


A dare.

Profile: Jon Topolski

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