Moustaches are so goddamn authentic.-Rollie Fingers
Wearing a miniature push-broom on the brim of your upper-lip screams to the world, "Hey world! Look at me, I'm a man, and I'm not afraid to do my own taxes!" and other super-manly stuff like that which I know very little about.
Apart from high-school class photos, I've never seen my dad without a moustache. I'm 26 years old, and I'm almost certain he's been proudly rocking a 'stache since at least 1980, years before the invention of the interwebz, reddit, and Movember to celebrate/circle-jerk the art of the majestic upper-lip caterpillars. In my mind, someone in a dark smoking jacket visits you in the night, and whispers something to the effect of: "You've been chosen, sir. Welcome to the big leagues," and slowly slaps a 3-inch stripe of hair just below your nose (or if you're REALLY lucky: this). It's a right of passage, a cosmopolitan symbol that you're more than capable of roofing a house during a thunderstorm, fathering 10 children, or changing a car tire with nothing more than a toothbrush, canola oil, and skeleton key as your tools.
The authenticity of a moustache permeates much deeper than just a few subcutaneous layers of tissue. A moustache follicle resonates far & wide, low & deep, and demands that even those on the highest mountain peaks respect it's presence in every place it roams. Or in my case; none of that at all.
I can't grow facial hair for the life of me. Either I haven't achieved or unlocked enough levels of manhood, or I'm just genetically inferior to the Yosemite Sam's of the world to be gifted with a respectable patch of face-power. Maybe the moustache Gods know that I'm just not ready for the level of responsibility that accompanies a 'stache, or they don't believe I'm ready to handle the pressures associated with being a real man. You might think that I'm joking, but I've legitimately lost sleep by over-analyzing this concept. That, and basically over-analyzing everything ever.
A serious question: how many people do you know with a moustache who you dislike? I'll bet you can count them on one hand. If that hand fills up, cut off your hand with the other one because you obviously have shitty friends.
And join me in a moustache-prayer that begins with: "Dear Burt Reynolds," and ends with "How do I look more like you?"