Mckenna Spencer is a sophomore at Salem Hills High School. This personal narrative was a runner-up in the UVU high school writing contest.

I mustache you a question. Bacon: breakfast’s mustache. Don’t trash the ‘stache. ‘Staching through the snow. Keep calm and grow a mustache. Your head exists only as a home for a mustache. May the ‘stache be with you. I mustache you for bacon. Respect the ‘stache. I’m her Mr. Mustache. Feel like a sir. I’d love to stay, but I really mustache.

The above paragraph contains multiple nails-on-a-chalkboard puns I’ve seen on T-shirts concerning mustaches. It seems as though this past year has not only been the year of the dragon (according to Chinese culture), but also the year of the mustache.

I see it everywhere. Shirts, duct tape, bags, swimsuits, Hitler, etc. I don’t know how or why facial hair became the hot topic of 2013, but it did. Even now, as I type, a paper mustache is attached to the bottom of my computer. It’s practically glaring at me, begging at me not to disgrace its name. Too bad.

It must’ve been a sunny day. The sun glinted off my face on a beautiful April morning. I was talking and laughing with my family. We were innocently sitting in our living room discussing our plans for the day, when my dad said three little words. Not “I love you,” or even “I hate you.” No, these words were worse than hate. They brought a whole world of hurt and misery into my life, “Nice mustache, kid.”

At first the words didn’t affect me. My dad teases me all the time, and rarely means a word he says. I pretended to take offense, but I didn’t really care. Unfortunately, the mistake I made in reacting to his comment was fatal. I had unintentionally egged him on, so the next day I received a similar criticism.

“Someone needs a shave.”

I rolled my eyes and shot back, “Shut up.”

Again, I had set myself up for more degrading words. As the days passed, the frequency of attacks increased. Even my siblings got tangled up in this hairy affair.

“When the sun hits your face just right,” my brother jingled, “that mustache sings.”

Up until this point I had maintained confidence in my hair-free lip, but I was starting to crumble. I began checking myself in the mirror. The peach fuzz seemed to grow. I had a mustache!

Not only did I notice my facial hair, but other’s as well. I fervently searched girls’ faces for reassurance I wasn’t alone. I saw extremes from black hairs to no hairs whatsoever. I felt my lip to check the length of my fuzz. I knew there were two simple solutions to this problem, but even simple things can prove impossible to a teenage girl.

I could either go to my hairdresser and request a wax, or I could ignore my dad and pretend I had nothing to worry about. The former was a scary solution. My mother had warned me against it multiple times. The hair grows back coarser and darker, even after the first time you wax it. The latter took too much effort. I would need hours of meditation and looking in the mirror telling myself the ferret on my face was actually cute.

The future seemed worthless. A mere 70 years of darkness and loneliness until I passed onto the next life. I could never look forward to prom, let alone marriage. No man in his right mind would date an ape like me.

I wasn’t the first to feel the pains of my dad’s teasing. My mom went through a similar experience. She was taunted and teased about her mustache by her husband. I don’t know how long she put up a fight with her self-confidence, but she eventually gave in and took the dreaded trip to our hairstylist. I doubt my dad even noticed her new look, but I can’t judge too harshly. He is of the male species, after all.

Wallowing in despair, I reflected on my mom’s familiarity with the topic at hand and decided to ask her opinion on what my course of action should be. She had already been putting up with my daily asking of her opinion on my mustache length.

“I think you look fine,” was her response every time.

This question was different, however. I desperately needed to know if I should do to my face what I had never done to it before.

“Hey mom?”

“Yes?”

“Should I wax my lip?”

“I think you look fine, but do what you want.”

Sometimes I wish she gave me less freedom. And came up with more original responses.

“You are no help,” I complained as I ran into a wall. Literally.

I wish I could end the story with: I prayed for strength to overcome this burden, and was blessed. Grievously, I don’t have any recollection of turning to my faith for relief.

I believe I crossed the bridge of my diminishing self-confidence by waiting out the criticisms. Eventually my dad stopped teasing me. After this affliction was lifted I continued in doubt and hatred. It took many months before I was able to get up in the morning and not notice my facial hair. When that blessed day came it was almost as if my mustache had withered back into my pores. I didn’t need therapy. No expensive rehab facility was required. I learned to love my lips just as much as Larry the Cucumber. Someday I hope to start a campaign for those less fortunate:

Don’t stash the ‘stache. Embrace it.

I’m hoping my appreciation program will be up there with breast cancer awareness and the healing center for those who still wear socks with sandals. I’m looking to change lives here.