My birthday’s in seven days. That’s right, seven fucking days more, and I’m no longer a teenager. This is a series wherein I write seven embarrassing things I can proudly say that I’ve done whilst “living da lyf”.
Over the past two weeks, I’ve made one irrevocable decision: that I won’t shave my moustache. My reasoning behind it is a little childish and stubborn, but I’m far too committed now to go back.
I’ve always known my ability (or the lack thereof) to grow facial hair. The one time I tried, resulted in a rather patchy and weak one, back in December, when I was in Delhi. Over half a year later, I hope it’s become better, but I don’t have any means to find out- my Uni forbids it. However, one thing I can do, is have a moustache- even if it’s a horrendous one.
Now, I must admit- I draw some huge inspiration from my dear comrade Kuwar. Over the summer, he has managed to grow the most eloquent (if not the most unkempt) moustache at college.
Over the past week, friends and acquaintances alike have noticed and remarked about it. Expectedly, most despise it. But it’s a little difficult to exactly explain the weird teenage tendencies I have, so I usually choose to nod along.
My initial plan was to shave it off on my birthday. However, the ‘stache might overstay its welcome, as there might be greater plans for it. I’ll just have to wait and find out.