I bought a handful of generic Thank You cards, drew mustaches on them, and sent them to everyone who donated. Thanks again to those who donated, and if you missed out, my moustache and I will be back again next year.
A wife writes to her friend about her husband shaving off his mustache.
CHATEAU DE SOLLES,
July 30, 1883.
…You cannot imagine, my dear Lucy, how it changes him [my husband]! I no longer recognize him-by day or at night. If he did not let it grow again I think I should no longer love him; he looks so horrid like this.
In fact, a man without a moustache is no longer a man. I do not care much for a beard; it almost always makes a man look untidy. But a moustache, oh, a moustache is indispensable to a manly face. No, you would never believe how these little hair bristles on the upper lip are a relief to the eye and good in other ways. I have thought over the matter a great deal but hardly dare to write my thoughts. Words look so different on paper and the subject is so difficult, so delicate, so dangerous that it requires infinite skill to tackle it.
Well, when my husband appeared, shaven, I understood at once that I never could fall in love with a strolling actor nor a preacher, even if it were Father Didon, the most charming of all! Later when I was alone with him (my husband) it was worse still. Oh, my dear Lucy, never let yourself be kissed by a man without a moustache; their kisses have no flavor, none whatever! They no longer have the charm, the mellowness and the snap — yes, the snap — of a real kiss. The moustache is the spice.