The Mustache: A True Story
Many people have asked how I came up with the mustache predicament that Julia gets herself into in Thirty-Two Going on Spinster.
Sadly, it's because it's true... A true mustache story about... me.
Picture it: Sicily 1912. Okay, actually it was in Orlando and the year was 2001. My roommates and I decided that a cruise with a group of guy friends would be fun. Four girls, four guys - the Caribbean. Dreamy, right?
The day we were leaving for the cruise, I decided that my... er... upper lip hair was not conducive to my chances of making out with one of the four guys that was going on this cruise. And there was one in particular that I wanted to make out with.
The waxing went as it usually does - wax goes on, followed by the paper. But when she pulled the paper off, it hurt. Don't get me wrong, it's never fun to get waxed, and it usually has a bit of sting to it - but this time was different. This time the sting wouldn't go away. It looked a little red at first glance, but it always does so I thought nothing of it.
The stinging continued as I left the salon, but I shook it off. I had a cruise to go on and a boy to make out with, after all. As I finished packing up I did take note that not only had the sting stuck around, but also a throbbing was now accompanying it. My upper lip was still red so I covered it with makeup as best I could, and we were off to the trip of a lifetime.
The first night was amazing. The open sea, the warm air. We laughed until we cried, stayed up late playing games and flirting. The lip, thank goodness, had stopped throbbing.
The next morning, after the foggy mirror had cleared from my morning shower it became clear that my upper lip had grown a friend - a scab... a long, thin scab just above my lip... very Hitler-ish.
I looked like Hitler.
Of course, my roomies found this to be hilarious. They laughed until they cried, actually (witches).
I was able to cover it up, for the most-part. At least I thought I did. It was at dinner a couple of nights later that the scabby upper lip came up in conversation, and my friend Phil said he "just thought it was a cold sore." So which was worse? Herpes or a mustache? HERPES OR A FREAKING MUSTACHE???
I opted to say it was neither. I doubt he bought it.
Hitler mustache aside, the trip was amazing. And in case you were wondering, no, I didn't make out with that particular boy on the cruise. But two years later, I married him.
See? Even true-life mustache stories can have a happy ending.
