This ‘dirtstache’ will ruin my holiday season

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So I’m more than a little nervous about returning to my homeland, the bustling metropolis of Otsego, for the holidays. This is because in the past semester I’ve acquired something quite embarrassing and completely unconcealable.

A pimple? No, this is far more permanent. Some sort of viral infection? I wish. A nasty reoccurring flashback to a childhood wading pool incident involving laughing children, a tainted diaper and a 5-year-old me?

No, I’ve got those already; they’re not so bad.

My plague, my burden, my unending affliction is this — a dirty mustache.

You know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen them on guys before. It’s that thin little layer of hair that can often be found just above the lips of middle school boys who look like they want to be Tom Selleck or Dr. Phil. The trouble is that I, obviously, am not in middle school.

It’s like my face just got the puberty memo six years late and fell asleep halfway through reading it. Part of the problem is that I can see one of my buddies or uncles saying those exact words to me when I go home. I’m a bit concerned that this holiday season will be less about giving and receiving good cheer and more about making fun of my new physical defect to get me back for all the times I picked on them.

I’ve been dreading this season all semester. Back in October I even picked up some of that Australian infomercial-sold hair removal cream, Nads. With the encouragement of my roommates and the more devious friends of mine, I tried the stuff.

I applied the sticky green Nads to my upper-lip region (attention people with idiotic senses of humor — now is the time to make jokes!), ripped it off with the little cloth and yelped like a freshly kicked Doberman. The result of Operation Nads? No less hair, lots of pain and a little bit of torn skin.

It’s not the fault of Nads. It’s just that my dirtstache is in that stage between bare skin and a full-blown mustache. It thwarts every attempt to shave it by simply growing back to its awkward length within minutes of being trimmed. It is completely unshaveable and yet entirely embarrassing.

My girlfriend tries to comfort me by saying that my lascivious upper lip is “cute.” For a while I got my hopes up about this, thinking that somehow this nuisance is actually some kind of blessing. That is, until I realized that she probably means “cute” less like the singer from Incubus and more like the “cute” chimp in the zoo who can’t stand up because it only has one leg.

So that pretty much brings us to now. Soon I will head back to Otsego where dozens upon dozens of people wait to pounce all over my helpless face’s new “Magnum P.I.”-ish flaw.

I’ve thought about a ski mask at Christmas dinner, but I imagine that would frighten the younger children. I also considered drawing in a full mustache with a marker, hoping no one would be the wiser during Christmas parties. However, that might prompt everybody to buy me shaving razors for Christmas that, as we know, are completely useless against my invincible “stache.”

I think I know what I want most for Christmas this year. Santa, please skip the candy and fun stuff and just leave me a heaping stocking full of electrolysis.