I have never worn a moustache. They seem rather perverse to me. They are an odd mix: seedy yet dainty. You see young men with dirty smudges on their upper lip and you wonder what is going through their heads. Surely this object cannot attract a member of the opposite sex, you think. Or of any sex. It is a grubby little thing. If you kissed a man with a moustache it would be like negotiating a bit of shredded wheat on the way in. The only way I could have a moustache, it seems to me, is if I were playing a role. The only moustache role I could possibly play is the cad. Cads have a fairly long moustache that they stroke diabolically as they are plotting their devilish schemes. It might suit me; the kind of dastardly plotter you get in a Thomas Hardy novel sometimes. There are other moustache roles. The Hitler moustache, of course; mostly taboo. The RAF pilot moustache. The thin pencil line moustache; aristocratic. Most of these things are of another time. So it would seem to make sense that they only exist as a kind of fancy dress. And yet men do sport them as permanent features. One would like to get into the mind of such men and find out what their big idea is.

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