by

Lukas Sherman

Our family is different. To begin with, we're not a family. We're not even people. We're a bunch of moustaches on vacation.

      There's this little island in the South Pacific that we go to. We stay at a place called Moustache Beach. “No beards allowed,” is our joke. Ha ha. Two years ago, this friggin' van dyke tried to sneak in. He was all trying to be stuffy and classy like he was from England even though he's all Jersey. He was like, “I say chaps, I'm part moustache. Be sporting and let me him. Harumph!” We showed him which side the stubble chafes!

      Sometimes we'll let a goatee or two join us ‘cause we feel sorry for them. They're like failed moustaches. Wannabes. Hell, they're all right. Just don't get them talking about beatniks or Ethan Hawke.

      This year has been great. They got this new bartender at the hotel who makes a dynamite rum punch that'll knock you off your whiskers. I've been hittin' it with my buddy, Mick. He's an Aussie handlebar. My name's Steve. I'm sort of a 70s-style porn ‘stache from Olympia. The face I call home is totally not like that. His name's Ted and he's a temp. I thought I could influence him, but he just likes to watch cartoons, eat salad and make things out of toothpicks. That's why I have to get away, cut loose and let my hair down (ha!).

      Today after the beach, the sun's bringing out my blond highlights, I went downtown with Mick, Fong (a fu Manchu), Ric (a pencil moustache), and Jean-Luc (French) when this gang of old razors starts sweatin' us.

      “Well, well. It's the moustaches on vacation,” says this nasty looking Bic. He was all rusty and I could see dark hairs sticking out from the blade. You gotta be careful with these guys.

      “That's right,” Fong says calmly.

      “I haven't shaved a moustache in a long time.”

      I see bits of dried blood on the blade. Man, I hate these guys!

      “Hey razor, we're just having a good time. Maybe you should step off,” I suggest.

      “Easy, mate,” Mick whispers.

      “Cut him, man,” says a Gillette Mach 3 way past his prime.

      “You couldn't cut butter, punk!”

      “Ease off, baby,” Ric says.

      “No, I'm not easing off. I'm hella mad! It's go time!”

      Being all hair kinda sucks in a fight. Razors are dumb and violent though and they just started slashing everywhere. This straight edge grazes me.

      “Mon dieu!” Jean-Luc cries, dodging an electric.

      “Ball!” Mick yells. We get into a big hairball and knock those razors down like bowling pins! And once they're down, they take their time getting up. We laugh and beat it.

      “Awesome! ‘Staches representin'!”

      “Crickey!” Mick says. We head back to the hotel.