Lemon Cake and Whiskers: The Robber Baron Within

I just had a slice of homemade lemon cake, and it was rich! Fluffy like a cloud, with a decadent layer of sugary frosting—it just doesn’t get any better. As I was enjoying the last bite, I had to do what all mustachioed men do: check the mirror for crumbs, leftovers, what have you.

And as sure as a politician lies, there lay a bit of cake at the end of my whiskers. I cleaned my face but left juuust a sliver of icing. Why, you ask? Because it leaves a bit of flavor for the rest of the day—and no one will know but me.

It got me thinking: what are the perks of being mustachioed? So I scribbled down a list to share with you—the non-mustachioed. Of course, I’m assuming the reader is a gentleman, but if you’re a woman, let’s hope you’re not in my tribe.

Let’s start with the style of mustache I have, because it’s not normal—I sport what I call a “Robber Baron.” If you look up styles of mustaches, you won’t see that term. What you will see is either a “Handlebar” or a “Walrus.” Mine is a combo of both.

I’ve read numerous books on American Robber Barons, and the majority had all sorts of curious whiskers. Of the 37 listed on Wikipedia, 31 had a beard, mustache, or deranged “Vanderbilt” sideburns that were in style around the Civil War.

I know it’s not politically correct to say I idolize these men, but I do—for many reasons. In addition to creating the American economy, they built magnificent homes, acquired beautiful art, cultivated terrific gardens, and turned their fortunes into universities, libraries, and museums. The incalculable number of philanthropic endeavors that these men bequeathed continues to help people all over the world.

But if we’re being candid, it’s their personal style that I obsess over. From top hats to castle-like mansions to club memberships to—of course—facial hair. And that was my inspiration when I stopped shaving.

My first attempt was a beard in college at the University of Georgia. I woke up one day and realized I was out of razors, so I quit shaving for four months. It was thick, long, and gnarly—I never trimmed it once. My friends came to call it the “Unabomber.” I didn’t get my hair cut either.

I was a mess, but I was young and could get away with it. When the semester ended, I had an internship, so I went to an old-fashioned barbershop in downtown Athens and not only got a haircut but a straight-razor shave. I must’ve sat in that leather chair for over an hour. I’ll never forget it, because when I walked in, I passed a couple of girls having coffee, and when I left, they were still there—and they noticed the transformation of a dirty ragamuffin into my usual handsome self.

I grew a goatee too, but only kept it for a few months. I’ve never been a goatee kind of guy. I don’t know why—it’s just not me.

My first year out of college, I got a promotion and was living in New Orleans without a boss on my ass, so I grew a mustache before a ski trip to Breckenridge. I will NEVER forget landing in Denver and seeing my buddies react to the furry critter on my face—they damn near died laughing.

You have to understand: this was twenty years ago, and if mustaches aren’t cool now, back then they were ridiculed without mercy—especially in a group of guys in their 20s. I kept it through the trip and shaved it when I got back to Louisiana.

For the following decade, I’d hear jokes about it, but—of course, me being me—I figured they were jealous. Let’s be honest: it takes balls to grow a mustache. And I don’t mean the easy way, by growing a beard first and shaving it into a ’stache—I’m talking the full monte from day one… which means suffering through the humility of every man, woman, and child wondering why you’re not locked up behind bars.

When I got into my forties, I grew a couple more, but I didn’t know how to properly trim or style them. I just grew these massive mustaches that naturally curled with sizable handlebars. There was no end goal—I just grew them for the hell of it. When they got too cumbersome, I’d spontaneously get rid of them—usually in the middle of an afternoon.

But I’d take notice of men who grew mustaches with intentionality and style. Inevitably, they were famous in the ’80s: Burt Reynolds, Magnum P.I., or dead and had names known the world over: Frick, Flagler, Rogers. OK—“known the world over” only applies if you obsessively read bios on Robber Barons.

That said, if you’ve visited the Frick Museum in New York, your experience was a gift from Henry Frick. Or if you’ve visited Palm Beach, you were there on account of the visionary toil of Henry Flagler. And on a personal note, Helen Keller—who my elementary school was named after—went to college because Mark Twain asked his friend, Henry Rogers, to pay her tuition.

These three men—Robber Barons in every sense of the word—were wildcatters of whiskers. And it was my aim to imitate their style.

Massive biographies have been written on these men and go into great detail about their contributions to our nation and the world, but we’re gonna stick with their whiskers.

Having a mustache is akin to living in a play at times. People regularly do a double take when they see you—men and women alike—like they’ve never seen a man with a burly mustache. And I guess many haven’t. Hell, I don’t see them either, and I parade around with one.

But I get it—add a suit, tie, and fedora, and it’s hard not to be conspicuous—even in New York.

If you’re desperate for attention, don’t shave your upper lip for a few months and see how it feels. Personally, I’m still not used to it. I could do without it—just not at the expense of not having the very feature that causes it.

Back to the perks:

1st – A lot of people think you work for the FBI, CIA, or Secret Service. Hand to God, the truth. People will ask you flat out: “Who do you work for... the FBI or something?” I always answer, “Yes,” which causes the conversation to go one of two ways: either a million questions I can’t answer but bullshit my way through (it’s not like they know what I’m talking about either), or they become a mute—with mute being the case ninety percent of the time. My guess is that the mutes have a warrant out for their arrest. The perk is the vibe it produces. If you’re into being left alone, having a mustache like mine helps—except when someone wants to know what it’s like guarding the President. Last week I told a few guys that I took a bullet for Reagan—not being history buffs, they shook my hand in appreciation for my sacrifice. I took a line from Louis Winthorpe in Trading Places: “In such a situation, you have no time to think—instinct takes over, it’s either kill or be killed.”

2nd – Other people—usually kids—assume you’re a college professor. I enjoy this reaction because it starts fun conversations. I never say I am (unlike the FBI assumptions). I just laugh and say, “I wish I was.” People have a picture in their minds that college professors still look like Ivy League WASPs of the 19th century—and I fit the bill.

3rd – Older men give you the “nod”—particularly octogenarians. The “nod,” as every man knows, is the international sign of respect between gentlemen. I always give a nod back. No words are spoken, and we’ll never see one another again—but we both “get it.” This happens quite often, no matter where my travels take me.

4th – Folks in the service industry seem to take better care of me than when I was clean-shaven. Coffees arrive quicker. Gas station attendants are friendlier. I don’t know why, but I’m grateful.

5th – As I said at the beginning of this piece, mustaches are keepers of many things—with tastes and smells topping the list. It’s not below me to keep a dash of lemon or the smell of pipe tobacco on there.

Lastly, I’ve realized a mustache is something people don’t forget. I’ll say one name that’ll prove my point: Rollie Fingers. I told ya. People forever remember you as “the guy with the mustache.” Even if I pulled up to a meeting in a Lamborghini, wearing overalls, and twirling a baton, I’d leave the meeting as “the guy with the mustache.”

Robber Barons aside, my real heroes are men of letters, and who looks more dapper than Faulkner? No one—he’s in a mustachioed league of his own. I went to great lengths to style mine after his. But I eventually let mine grow, and thus, it grew into my style.

Normally I’d have shaved it off by now, but I think I’m in for the long haul. My mustache and I have settled into one another. In certain parts of the country, no one has seen me clean-shaven, so the ’stache has become part of my identity. I’m sure I’ll question my decision to keep it when summer in the South arrives, but for now, I’m comfortable following in the footsteps of Kipling, Nietzsche, and Flaubert—just as much as Frick, Flagler, and Rogers.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA