Damien Galeone

“Ahoj fešák,” says my favorite waitress at my local pub.

I mouth the pronunciation (fesh-ahk) and ask my companion, N, “Did she just call me a fascist?”

N has already burst into laughter that could require a trip to the hospital.

My face gets red. “What does that mean?”

When N gathers his senses and shakes off a few aftershock giggles, he tells me that fešák means roughly handsome man.

For those readers who don’t know me, and are not rolling on the ground emitting a laughter that is quite frankly uncalled for, let me just explain something in the most diplomatic terms possible: handsome is not a description that gets thrown at me on a daily basis. It is, however, the most recent in a rash of public ‘situations’ that I have been involved in since Friday morning.

For you see, Thursday night I thought it would be hilarious to shave my beard and leave only a handlebar mustache. I was right.

“Shut up,” I say to N. He orders shots and I become divine.

Since Friday I have been pointed at, mocked, and called a colorful series of nicknames and 1880s occupations. On the other hand, I have been flirted with, eyed up, and asked by a woman if I could fix her computer. While I was jogging this morning, another moustached jogger chatted with me for five minutes. It’s possible that I joined a mustache jogging street gang. A woman asked if I played league volleyball.

The only conclusion I have come to is that people attach their own very personal meaning to a mustache. Some attach a job (fireman, porn actor), abilities (fixing things, volleyball) and varying degrees of attractiveness to a mustache. Some women have treated me as though I was wearing a live tarantula on my upper lip and to others I am clearly the fireman Hobbit of their dreams.

Which of these my favorite waitress is thinking is originally debatable, but becomes clearer when the entire wait staff starts calling me fešák.

They better hope I don’t call my jogging gang.