MO'VEMBER

Pic courtesy of James Porky Davies.

As you are all no doubt aware, those of you not living under a rock, a bridge or a tunnel, it is Mo'vember, a month dedicated to cultivating a lush outcrop of facial hair on one's upper lip. This practice is in aid of raising awareness of prostate and testicular cancer, raise money for the combat or treatment thereof, and should be restricted to men.

As men around the globe sport a snorr-gasbord of variety on this theme under their very noses, I have unfortunately been forced to bail out of the idea. I thought I could cheat and just stop shaving, and trust me, this idea was met with wild enthusiasm. I hate shaving and am infinitely grateful for a job that doesn't insist on me being well presented. So I let myself go and used the excuse "I'm growing a moustache, but I'm also growing a beard at the same time". You see, for those of you that don't know me personally (thank your lucky stars) I am blonde to the point of inflicting arc-eyes on anyone in my general vicinity. This poses a problem when one is faced with the prospect of a moustache sans accompanying beard. Simply put, I look like a kid who's just gulped down all the milk. Or a Swedish paedophile. Neither is a good look for me and with my already dangerous levels of narcissism, this is obviously not going to fly. So when the whole Santa Claus thing got a bit much the other day and I started getting the whole "scruffy itchy" I decided, "ah fuck it, lemme shave the beard off and see how bad it's gonna look".

I last had a moustache in the army. Everyone laughed then as well.

I felt almost embarrassed. I laughed so hard at this blonde moustachioed idiot in the mirror, I just couldn't breathe after a while. Thank all that is holy I wasn't required to go out in public to attend to some sudden emergency! To make matters worse, the laughing turned me an alarming fire engine red, making the already luminescent white paedo-stache look even more milky-way maniacal by way of added contrast. Like a slash of Tippex on a ripe tomato...

It didn't last long. As soon as I stopped convulsing with laughter and my hand was steady enough, it was unceremoniously sheared. Until next year.

The entire point of this exercise, though, is to encourage us men to go and have ourselves checked out. Now, I don't know about you, but when the school nurse "checked you for a hernia" and instructed you to cough, I felt utterly violated and couldn't wait to get my school issue navy blue underpants back to their rightful place, covering my privates. Similarly, the physical in the army was equally invasive and holds no fond memories. So booking myself in for some Cuba-educated "doctor" to inspect my balls doesn't fill me with elation. Don't even get me started on the prostate and the only available avenue of exploration... I can just hear the rubber glove snapping against a wrist - the stuff nightmares are made of!

I wonder if I can convince my girlfriend to study nursing, so she can inspect the collection of dangly bits for insidious lumps. Voila! Problem solved. Actually 2 birds. She'll get the outfit as well. I must make a mental note to discuss this with her.

On second thoughts it's a kak idea. These days all they teach is toyi-toying and basic healthcare neglect.

NGDG: "This is gonna sound totally Hipster but: I feel so superior to all the Johnny-come-latelys. Man! I hated the ANC when they were still underground."

Spread The Love. Check Each Other For Cancer.