Follies of the faces

 Mornings hurt me, and for a pretty different reason than just waking up. Mornings are when you are forced to wash your face, and while I pour the splashes of water onto my weirdly round face, the stupid water would gently caress the facial hairs right above my lip, and there it is - my mustache! Oh, how heartbreaking the reminder feels like.

Me and my mustache have a friendship of ages. It started with the linings of milk on my face as a child and smiling like a maniac about it, to now actually having it. It’s not as visible as I’m making it sound like; but yet, with a little attention as one would give to a stranger at the side of the road doing a random dance, it shines like a diamond on my face. It rests calmly and cherishes the honor I have given to it.


Facial hair comes like disgust and a form of mockery for girls my age. But, for me, it has been a medium to mock others. “Bruh! My mustache is bigger than yours”, has shredded so many guys, and in such violent ways, as if that statement had the intensity to mock their masculinity as a whole.


Now, it’s uncommon, I agree. Girls are supposed to be hairless everywhere and, on the scalp, they are supposed to have long shiny hair. It’s the definition of an ultimate “beautiful” girl. But mustache. They are guys’ accessories. Mustache makes a boy a man; it makes them reliable; and when accompanied with the perfectly cut beard, it makes them desirable. Fact? Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong.

It’s just hair. But there is confidence attached to it. A guy gains confidence when he has it; a girl loses confidence if she has it. Sometimes it feels like a reaction involving electrons having this conversation, where the only difference is, electrons can be shared, confidence cannot.

Now, what shall I do with my mustache? Shave it? It’ll grow bigger. Have I tried? Oh god, yes! Not shave it? I still have a mustache! It’s an impasse, really. Does it bother me? Well, that’s situational.

But, if my mustache serves a purpose of taking away the attention from my ever so big pointy nose which is a clear enough trait that I am, indeed, a Bahun, I will gladly savor it. Dye it even.

“Bahuns and their noses” could genuinely serve a title of historical predicament filled with situational humor. There’s one thing so very common in Bahuns – their noses. The skin-colored samosas pasted in front of the face for serving the mere purpose of breathing. Duh! People with small noses also breathe. What is so special about the large noses of Bahuns? Do they breathe more? No. They breathe the normal amount. So, why? It’s a question generation of Bahuns have been asking.
 

You see, traits – the physical traits – are what people notice often about you. The standards of what’s nice and what’s not is of course different, and somehow, dynamic. And, in this world, I stand here with a big pointy nose and mustache as if those are the things that really make me. No, I am not so mature to think that beauty is on the inside, and I shouldn’t care. I do care. I do care about how my nose covers 60% of my face, and how my mustache rests below it as if it’s on a beach sunbathing. But those are the traits that let people know me, define me. And while the insecurities persist, aren’t they a part of my identity? They don’t have to be. Yes, I know that. I can make my identity the way I want it. But, that part of me is still me. Those jokes, and those insecurities, they are still me. 


So, instead of shining “Oh dear God, not again!” to every little dot on your face, just say, “I see” and rub it off. Make jokes with them, not about them. Befriend them, and they’ll know that you are a bastard they can’t mess with.


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