“How attached are you to your beard?”
That was the question my friend Zig posed to me about a month ago.
“Well, I haven’t been beardless since Russia. And that was almost 5 years ago. Why?”
“I figured we’d all done mustaches in honor of Ripple this weekend,” was his reply.
The camping trip Zig was referring to was one planned by our friend Joe. Joe was Joe Ripple, the Ripple Zig was referring to.
Joe is co-founder of Timewarp films (buy Dead Hunt!) and former police officer. When he retired from the force, he left his badge but held onto his mustache. And what better way to show friendship than by imitation? None I can think of.
For a while, I had been contemplating doing something stupid with my facial hair, anyway, and this gave me the perfect opportunity to do it. It was one of those things where I wanted to do it, I knew it would look ridiculous (on me), but I wanted to see how it looked, anyway. And God bless Zig for putting that ball in motion.
So I called up Mitch, another friend who was also going, and told him the plan. Mitch is usually facial hairless, and he said he would grow what he could (I didn’t give him much time), but he was certainly eager to participate. I didn’t bother to ask my dad (who was camping with us, as well), because that man never shaves his beard. I vaguely remember him having just a mustache in the ’70s, but that was brief, and he might have lost a bet that I didn’t know about.
The big weekend came, we packed our bags and headed up to the campground. We vowed not to say anything to Joe. He used to be a detective, after all, so we figured by him using razor sharp detecting skills would immediately solve the case of the men with mustaches.
Maybe he was rusty, because on Friday he didn’t say anything.
And all day Saturday, not one word was uttered. We were getting frustrated.
Finally, as Saturday afternoon turned to Saturday evening, I broke out my camera for some group shots. As I was standing next to Joe getting ready for a picture, he mentioned my mustache (and I must admit, I was sporting one hell of a doozey).
I feigned hurt feelings. “But Joe,” I said, “I did it for you. We all did.”
Joe looked at me. Then he turned and looked at Zig. Then Mitch. You could see the realization hitting him.
“Fuck you. Fuck you all. You fucks.”
Laughter was the reply.
And that was what the weekend was like. Laughter. All weekend. And you know what the next line is, faithful readers: