We were out the other night having dinner - me, my partner, our friend Meg - and it'd been a month since I started growing my facial hair as an experiment. My beard coverage is patchy at best and pops up on my face sporadically, like a series of low-lying Pacific islands vulnerable to climate change. But one day, fuelled by youthful courage (and insurmountable beard envy), I thought, "Screw it. Just grow it, Ben! Who cares what it looks like?"
For a while, I thought it was going well. Then, in the middle of the dinner conversation, Meg put down her fork abruptly. "Sorry, I can't do it any more. I just have to say it." She reached over the table. "This," she said, scruffing my chin sadly, like I was a beloved dog she was about to euthanise, "looks horrible."
I turned to my partner, betrayed. How long had he known?
Later that night, I saw myself in the mirror with fresh eyes: I looked like a human mannequin with toilet-brush bristles hastily glued onto its face with Clag. I removed it in minutes, looking as sad as Natalie Portman did when she got her head shaved in V for Vendetta.
So accept my apologies and believe me when I say I can't join you all for Movember this year. Me trying to grow a moustache is as pathetic as a 12-year-old checking every morning to see whether his pubes have arrived. Personally, I'm a fan of the charity, especially considering how great moustaches look on some guys. My friend Nic has a moustache that's dreamy and ye olde handsome, and harks back to the days when aviation was glamorous and pornography was hilarious. But he receives compliments about his face caterpillar almost daily; when I grow mine out, I resemble a neighbourhood paedophile.
Of course, I'll donate money. I'll support any cause that helps address clinical depression and cancer of the prostate. Hell, I'll even inspect yours, despite having no formal medical qualifications. Just don't make me grow a moustache. Trust me, it's more for your sake than mine.
