Lest the moustachioed, sideburned, goateed, stubbled, and soul patched feel neglected by the discussion of facial hair thus far, this chapter is concerned with your iconoclastic history. In the evolution of mankind, certain brave souls decided that you could selectively trim and shape the tufts that grew on your face, eschewing, as it were, the full enchilada.

I currently know only two men who wear moustaches – one is an older professor of psychiatry and the other is a French chevalier who works in ballet. For some reason, the ’stache has become an endangered species; one rarely sees them on the street, and almost never on young faces. But the moustache has a decidedly celebrated legacy. To me, the grandaddy of all moustaches was that worn by Salvador Dali. In photographs it stretches like a waxy tightrope and takes a sharp turn upward towards his crazy eyes and crowded thoughts. It’s been said that in his poor student days, he actually used it as a paintbrush. It probably also inspired the hands on all those droopy clocks, too.


Zorro

Details on the evolution of these über-whiskers is scant. For most of history, as is still often the case, the beard and moustache came as a single package, governed as we’ve seen by religious, political, class, and social convention. Even though for every male, peach-fuzz first appears on the lip, signifying the onset of manhood, boys have always been told to be patient and wait for the real thing. Somewhere along the line, however, someone had the idea to shave the lower face and leave the hairy upper lip untouched. As early as 2650 bc, Egyptian artifacts reveal men sporting a pencil-thin line – perhaps a chap’s wish to look feline in a cat-worshipping cult – but by 1800 bc they had once again become clean-shaven. (The anthropologist Desmond Morris tells us that twirling the moustache is an enduring form of male preening and seduction, but anyone who has watched cartoons featuring Snidely Whiplash or Dirk Dastardly knows that they do it when they have scheming on their mind.) Thereafter we see pockets of growth throughout Europe and Asia. In fact, a most scholarly moustache was sported by Confucius (b. 551 bc) and by most of the early, great Chinese philosophers who followed. Around the same time, Spartans exploited the masculinity of the moustache in their laws in that those convicted of cowardice had half of their ’staches removed to induce public stigma and shame. The Greeks completely disdained its presence in the absence of the beard, while the Romans cursed the barbaric Gauls, Goths, and Franks, all of whom sported the uncivilized growth as they sequentially plundered Rome. The ancient Britons wore droopy moustaches, often dyed green or blue, as an act of defiance against Caesar. By 200 bc, residents of the Sarnath (thought to be the birthplace of the Buddha) also wore distinct droopers.


Confucious

Although the word moustache itself comes from the Doric Greek, with Italian and French derivation (mustax for upper lip), the Greco-Romans may have named the moustache, but steadfastly refused to wear it themselves. It took centuries until Charlemagne (742-814) demonstrated unparalleled French chic with his, while other Middle-Agers wore full beards. The Welsh by the 12th century sang the ’stache’s praises as a sieve for drink (but any excuse to imbibe was likely sufficient). A few Normans (during the Conquest) and Crusaders likewise went beardless, but sometimes maintained the moustache. In the 14th century, the Black Prince (son of Edward III) is shown in portraits with quite a proud one. But inexplicably, in 1447, English parliament passed an act forcing men to shave their upper lips. Elizabethans similarly ridiculed the moustache as a sign of villainy and foppery (and, no doubt, Frenchness). Across the pond, Clemenceau and the wig-wearing Louis XIV had moustaches, but the latter shaved his off in 1680 when its greying betrayed his age. (Not surprisingly, by the 16th century, the clergy, who had long banned beards, had an opinion about the moustache matter: hair on the upper lip might trap the sacred contents of the chalice, so it was verboten for priests.)


Peter the Great

Charles II (1630-85) consolidated a French connection when he maintained his suave, pencil-thin line, which many courtiers promptly copied. In the 17th century, Hungarians and the Swiss Guards were known for their trademark bushy lips, while in Russia, Peter the Great was busy abolishing beards and moustaches altogether (even though he had a moustache himself for a time). By the 1800s in England, upper lip growth was considered evil, almost a mark of the beast, this time because the wafer of the eucharist could potentially be abraded and damaged en route to the stomach. Various forms of moustache discrimination were promptly articulated (some of which persist today): it was believed that only fops, Latins, foreigners, infidels, those with bad teeth or unable to grow a proper beard would ever choose this lesser form of facial hair. In spite of such prejudice, both the beard and moustache flourished fifty years later in the Victorian era, even though Queen Victoria herself, true to the spirit of her reign, once made an unsuccessful attempt to ban the moustache in the British navy. The navy has in fact remained the undaunted domain of the ’stache ever since.


Theodore Roosevelt

A whole European industry of combs, brushes, waxes, pomades, oils, dyes, and hairnets burst forth to service the moustache (and beard/sideburn) revolution. Throughout the early 19th century, French militia men, the Hassars, and the Prussian guard all wore moustaches, firmly establishing them as de rigeur for all military men who were the fashion plates of their time. Interestingly, however, the King of Bavaria forbade his men to wear them in 1838, although this eccentric ban didn’t last long. It was around this period that the Spanish came to proclaim in one of their famous proverbs that “a kiss without a moustache is like an egg without salt” (though Jean-Paul Sartre later changed it to “a kiss without a moustache … is like good without evil”). Clearly, Spaniards and Frenchmen knew a good thing when they grew it. Meanwhile, in the colonies, spritely American men embracing dandyism in places like New York City sported fine moustaches. The Civil War saw the walrus and handlebars become popular on both sides of the battle. Later on, soldiers in the Mexican-American War, gold-rushers, and Buffalo Bill (with his long hair, ’stache, and goatee) contributed to the enduring frontier, wild-man iconography of the moustache. Three U.S. presidents (and none since) had
them: Grover Cleveland, Theodore Roosevelt, and William H. Taft. In fact, Teddy’s was about as bushy as it gets.


George Bernard Shaw

By 1872, a product which prevented food from being trapped in facial hair was actually patented, so ubiquitous were beard-moustache-sideburn combos. Mous-tache cups, with their porcelain edge for the ’stache to perch and stay dry while a man drank, were issued in all shapes and sizes. They were originally invented in 1830 by Harvey Adams, an English potter who struck it rich with the concept. In 1902, another very popular product was the Kaiser Mustache Trainer, a German-designed contraption named after the much-moustachioed Kaiser Wilhelm II, with gauze, elastic, and straps to keep one’s points reaching ever upward.

Despite the growing popularity of the ’stache, however, there were still sporadic movements against them.

In 1907, New Jersey representative Cornish tried unsuccessfully to introduce a tax on facial hair while promoting the moral virtues of a clean shave. In a similar vein, a rather famous British testament, that of William Budd, circa 1862, stipulated that his son would be completely disinherited if he ever dared sprout a moustache. Law students continue to marvel at the prejudice and unresolved “control issues” Mr. Budd inflicted on his progeny even after death. Even the furry George Bernard Shaw made numerous cracks about foreigners and dandies with moustaches: in his play Pygmalion, the character Nepommuck was “evidently a foreigner guessable as a whiskered Pardour from Hungary, but in spite of the ferocity of his moustache, he is amiable and genially voluble.” Shaw was a full-beard man and probably had no use for lesser expressions.

By 1914 and the advent of World War I, the military moustache was well-established and pampered like an orchid – certain British regiments insisted on its growth and this period saw the toothbrush and handlebars become standard issue. Generally, the shape of the ’stache suggested rank: officers had waxed, pointy manifestations while infantrymen tended towards the thick and shaggy.


Groucho Marx

The 1920s, ’30s, and ’40s saw the emergence of the moustache as a visual icon with distinct political and cultural associations that are powerful even now in our understanding of the modern ’stache. You already know who these famous players are: Charlie Chaplin grew his comical caterpillar, to be later copied by Hitler. Another despot – Joseph Stalin – is also instantly recognizable because of his upper lip growth, not unlike Saddam Hussein in recent years. Groucho Marx wore bushy eyebrows and a moustache that were painted on, until they became his trademark and he finally grew them in permanently. Chester Conklin’s Keystone Cop walrus-style was a phony he kept in his pocket and pulled out when he wanted to be recognized. Other actors like Clark Gable and Douglas Fairbanks exuded impossible savoir faire and sex appeal with their thin ’stache styles.


Joseph Stalin


Clarke Gable

The ’30s saw barbers clip particular moustache styles and trim variants like the consort, shadow, guardian, major, general, military, coleman, and regent. The Fu Manchu movies of the period demonized a Chinese villain with a long, drooping growth (which has become a huge style today) despite the fact that the novels in which the character appears (written by Nayland Smith) suggest no such adornment.

Barber shop quartets, complete with straw hats, striped jackets, and, of course, classic handlebar moustaches, piped up with minimal provocation across the U.S. at county picnics. In 1944, an article in the New York Post described the “tidy” moustache-wearer as confident, dignified, and distinguished, and the heroic raf pilots known as the Desert Rats were seen as dashing examples. In less macho camps, Salvador Dali and Marcel Proust grew unparalleled “artistic moustaches” and Agatha Christie’s great Belgian detective Hercule Poirot was as noted for his upturned waxed wonder as he was for his snooping abilities. Albert Einstein with his frizzy grey hair and furry lip became the epitome of scientific genius. In the world of board games, which hit the market after the war, Colonel Mustard (of Clue fame) and the jolly banker in Monopoly managed to convey an avuncular quality to generations of game-addicted children.

Generally, non-celebrity ’stachers are a self-protective lot. In 1947, actor Jimmy Edwards formed the Handlebar Club in a London pub – a group of moustachioed men (absolutely no beards allowed) who met for monthly “sport, conviviality,” and charitable works. Similar clubs sprung up across Europe including Germany, Sweden, and Norway. The clubs reached critical mass in the ’50s and and noted renewed membership through the ’80s when they staged growth competitions.


In 1967, The Beatles gave away cradboard moustaches with their album Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band


Colonel Mustard from a vintage edition of the board game CLUE

The swinging ’60s, as described elsewhere, saw the arrival of an overall facial hair boom that included the moustache, so long as it didn’t look military. The fad was so great that the Kent Brushes Company reissued a long-shelved moustache brush for their tending. Stars like Robert Goulet perpetuated the celebrity ’stache as a symbol of sexualized masculinity, later emulated by actors like Burt Reynolds. The Beatles, ever the trendsetters of the decade, also got into the act; all of them sported moustaches at some point during this period (and occasionally, all at the same time). The Zapata ’stache invoked rebellion, having been named after Emiliano Zapata (1879-1919), a guerrilla during the Mexican revolution of 1917; it was resurrected for several years when Marlon Brando played him in the 1956 film Viva Zapata! Later in the decade, the hippie movement saw the flowering of all forms of facial hair, including classic ’staches on stars like Jimi Hendrix.


Robert Goulet


Jimmy Hendricks

Another classic, the gay moustache, appeared in the 1970s, inspired by the Village People and ultra-macho clones (see Chapter 8). Some believe its evolution into a gay or bisexual signifier explains the ongoing demise of the moustache for straight men in the ’80s and ’90s. But in all fairness, a lot of smarmy heterosexual swingers with Saturday night fever wore them, too.

Keeping all these historical trends in mind, it is apparent that certain groups have steadfastly eschewed fads and kept growing what they never lost: cops, firemen, construction workers, Greeks, Turks, Indians, Pakistanis, Bulgarians, African Americans, athletes, Southern California rockers, and men with cleft palate repairs are a few faithful examples. (With regard to cops, the Los Angeles Police Department is said to have once deliberated for thirteen weeks to compose rules regulating the wearing of moustaches, concluding that they had to be short, of natural colour, and not worn below the vermilion border of the upper lip or the corners of the mouth.)

The ’70s, ’80s, and even the ’90s saw certain celebrities whose moustaches were almost as famous as they were: actor Burt Reynolds, Olympic swimmer Mark Spitz, legal eagle Alan Dershowitz, singer Stevie Wonder, media magnate Ted Turner, film critic Gene Shalit, beach-detective Tom Selleck, and Canadian singer Burton Cummings (lead singer of the Guess Who) are but a few. All have, at one time or another, repackaged themselves without lip-fuzz, perhaps in search of a more youthful look, but most returned to their trademark moustache before too long.

As I finished composing my clipped ’stache history, I checked out the web to take the millennial pulse on the issue. A fun website I consulted called www.mustachesummer.com lists the fifteen sexiest moustaches of all time, in the following order: Sam Elliot (cowboy actor), Tom Selleck, Rollie Fingers (baseball hall-of-famer), Ned Flanders (devout Simpsons star), Bea Arthur (who struggled with menopausal growth on Maude), Charlie Chaplin, the quintessential “’70s singles bar guy,” Gabriel Kaplan (from Welcome Back, Kotter), Dirk Dastardly (cartoon villain from The Wacky Races), Clark Gable (in Gone With The Wind), Colonel Sanders (KFC king), Yosemite Sam (Bugs Bunny nemesis and gold-rusher), the character Jek Porkins from Star Wars, and Wilford Brimley (star of those wholesome Quaker Oats television ads). On another website, men share stories from their personal moustache growth experiences, with advice and support readily provided. Yet another misguided web-soul hopes to reclaim the ’stache for “manly heterosexuals.” An ongoing popular series of print advertisements promoting milk and reissued on the web shows celebrities like Naomi Campbell, Britney Spears, and the cast of Survivor with milk moustaches. Ironically, these faux ’staches were voted the most popular ones of the ’90s, as the real things had all but vanished.


Cigarette package depicting moustachioed man. Goodwin & Co., Library of Congress, LOT 13163-08 no. 6

Finally, a 1997 Wall Street Journal article spoke of the plight of the modern Turkish man who has long viewed the moustache as a masculine symbol of uncompromising nomad spirit and yet realizes that it clashes with his wish to appear contemporary and competitive (read: clean-shaven) in North American and European cultures. A whole visual, political short-hand is now being lost: once upon a time, leftists had bushy expressions, rightists had droops to the chin, Sunni Muslims were severely clipped, and Alevi Muslims had curls into the mouth – all abandoned in the name of foreign trade and through increasing exposure to American culprits like cnn and mtv. Even the political die-hards were thinking twice about their upper lips.

Meanwhile, back in the U.S., currently there are some ten million millennial men thought to be wearing moustaches. (Those who want to but cannot are now able to undergo micro-transplants or to buy mini-’stache wigs fastened with adhesive.) For those imperfect types among us, the classic ’stache hides bad teeth, lip defects, facial scars, softens a mean mouth, or breaks the line of a long face. For more creative types, it can be waxed, dyed, twirled, and dipped in various sauces prior to kissing. Modern adolescents and college kids across North America who have taken to ’stache-growing contests, appear to favour the Fu Manchu, the pencil-thin, the waxed, and the pointy in combo with grunge, stubble, goatees, and soul patches, but seldom the military-bushy. Fashion watchers repeatedly predict an imminent return of the ’stache. It hasn’t quite happened, though they’re popping up in print advertisements and on fashion runways with some regularity. Rare as moustaches are nowadays, what we see when we look at them depends entirely on our age, generation, ethnicity, and knowledge of history.

In 1944, a certain Miss Effron in the New York Times summed things up beautifully: “…the moustache plays many roles today – South American suavity, French affectation, Sicilian villainy. It’s Chaplin-pathetic, Hitler-psychopathic, Gable-debonair, Lou Lehr-wacky. It perplexes. It fascinates. It amuses and it repulses.”

Though I have no idea who Lou Lehr is, I couldn’t agree more.

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