Fic: Movember Has Come
Hello, everyone. It's been an obscenely long time, so here is some fic to apologise.
November 1st
It was as if everything he had ever loved about the world - every jazz LP, every issue of Global Explorer, every tweed jacket and Hawaiian shirt, every bit of stationary, every elbow patch, every scat solo, every shade of brown, every pancake, every trumpet and every bookmark, everything that made his universe great - had been piled at his feet and burned to a crisp before his very eyes.
“What the hell is that?”
Vince beamed with childlike glee, and did a three-sixty spin on the toe of his white platform boot. “D’you like it?”
“What is that…monstrosity?”
Vince laughed. “Surely you should know that.”
Howard did know. Howard knew very well. He’d seen this image reflected in bathroom mirrors countless times from when he was young. He recognised all too well that Jackson Pollock splashing; that worn-toothbrush look. But never had he thought it would ever come to this. For it was true:
Vince Noir, rock and roll star, was growing a moustache.
“Well, yeah, but…why?” Howard replied. Vince stroked the beginnings of brown stubble across his upper lip where he purposely hadn’t shaved that morning.
“It’s Movember, Howard.”
Howard frowned so hard his eyes nearly disappeared altogether. “What?”
His friend rolled his own eyes with the air of someone explaining an iPhone to their granddad. “Movember. It’s where you grow a moustache throughout November to raise awareness for prostrate cancer. It’s a bit like NaNoWriMo but with facial hair.”
“I thought we were never going to mention that again, Vince,” said Howard, his eyes darting beadily around the room to where there absolutely could not be a missing fourth wall. “Not after last time.”
Vince tutted fondly. “Whatever. So do you like it?”
Howard folded his arms. “I dunno, Vince.”
A flash of lightning shot through Vince’s eyes. “What?”
“Well, it’s not really you, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just not really your style.”
Vince shook his head. “Everything’s my style. I am style.
"No, Vince, this isn’t you. You’re heading down a slippery slop to mockery and ridicule. Believe me, I know.”
“People won’t mock me, Howard,” Vince replied confidently. Howard felt beads of sweat begin to break above his brow as he furiously protested.
“Oh, yes they will. You’ll be in the gutters of fashion before you can blink, sir.”
“No I won’t.”
Howard squinted his eyes into nonexistence. “Very soon.”
Vince paused for a moment, and a look akin to understanding bloomed across his face, caressing his cheekbones. He grinned impishly.
“Howard, are you feeling threatened?”
Howard folded his arms again. “I most certainly am not, sir.”
“Yeah you are!” Vince crowed. “You’re threatened because I’m growing a moustache!”
Howard sighed. “Yeah, Vince, I am a little bit. This is my look; a good look, a strong look. It’s not a look for futuristic prostitutes. I’m bringing the moustache back, not you!”
“Yeah, but, you didn’t really bring it back, did you, Howard? You dragged it to a ditch in Leeds in the 1950s and left it there to die.”
Howard slumped down into the chair behind the counter. Vince placed a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, ignoring the muffled “Don’t touch me,” in response.
“Come on, Howard, don’t be like that. It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad, Vince? This is my life, my livelihood. Maybe I should shave it off.”
“Woah now, let’s not be hasty here,” Vince chuckled nervously. “Trust me, it’ll be great. You’ve already got a ‘stache, the girls are gonna love you!”
Howard sighed morosely. “You think so?”
If Vince noticed the pessimistic tone behind the words that usually provoked gleeful excitement in his friend, he didn’t show it. Instead he cried: “Course they will! This is your month, Howard. A month where everyone likes jazz and stationary!”
Howard frowned up at his friend. “Even you?”
Vince made a face. “Well, no, but it’s charity what counts, right? Come on, Howard. Your whole life has been leading up to this month.”
“I suppose.” Howard stared warily at the flecks of stubble that he was sure soon would transform into a rich and worthy competitor for his mocha stain. It seemed Vince always outshone him, these days.
“It’ll be great, I promise!” Vince beamed, and he swooped off upstairs to admire his new facial hair, leaving Howard sighing woefully in the shop below.
November 12th
The shop doorbell tinkled, and Howard looked up expectantly. His face fell as two more moustachioed men came sidling into the shop: one with fluorescent orange hair and an aquamarine checked jumpsuit and the other in a tartan cape and oversized sunglasses. The hipsters pottered around for a moment before joining the mass of people who were currently crowded into the shop. Vince was amongst them, happily mingling in the buzzing crowd and sporting a proud Dali-esque twirl of a ‘stache. It was a silly, flippant little thing in Howard’s opinion. Vince’s moustache might have been amusing to look at, sure, but could it keep a man’s upper lip warm in the Arctic Tundra? Howard didn’t think so, no sir.
“Hey, guys, if you buy stuff, fifty percent of the profits go to Movember, yeah?” Vince cried out above the hubbub, and a cheer rose from the crowd. Howard rolled his eyes. Sure, they wanted tweed elbow patches now, but a man of substance like him would wear his for a lifetime. These trendy people, these social butterflies whipping about on the winds of fashion like…well, butterflies; give them until December the first and they’d drop this foray into the world of the gentleman like a hot dinner. Howard had seen Vince go through many fashions in his time - Goth, mod, punk, steampunk, French revolutionary, that embarrassing week where he’d dressed like a Russian serf - and none of them ever lasted more than a month.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vince and his stupid curls sidle over to the counter.
“Hey, Howard, you alright?” his friend chirped with a cheerful grin. Before Howard could reply, though, he’d said: “Look, here’s someone I want you to meet,” and dragged over a young man with a pencil moustache, a top hat and a faintly bemused expression.
“Howard, this is Marvyn, with a Y. He likes jazz!”
And before Howard could say, “Wait, Little Man, you know I’m appalling in social situations,” Vince had bounced over to where Mama Zoom was drawing moustaches on pieces of toast in eyeliner. Howard eyed the stranger warily, and tried for a smile.
“Hello, Marvyn,” he said. Marvyn looked as if he desperately wanted to be anywhere but where he was. “So, you like jazz?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Marvyn-with-a-Y in a thick Welsh accent. “Bonobo, Little Dragon, Xploding Plastix…”
Howard frowned. “Weather Report?”
“Never heard of them, mate.”
“They’re a sort of jazz fusion-”
“I’ll be honest with you…Harold, was it?” interrupted Marvyn. “I’m not really big on anything pre-1990. I think music’s gotta move with the time, know what I mean?”
“I have to be honest, I’m not sure I do.”
“Oh. Right.”
An awkward silence broke. Howard scratched the back of his neck.
After a moment Marvyn gestured to his face. “I like your moustache. How long did it take you to grow?”
“This? Oh, I’ve had this for…” Howard thought back, but couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he’d decided he’d wanted to grow facial hair in the first place. “A while.”
“It’s not a Mo-Grow?” asked Marvyn with a shocked expression.
“I don’t…think so?”
“Oh. Right,” Marvyn shrugged. “I’m only here for the birds anyway. They love a little bit of fuzz up there, eh? Gagging for it.”
“Um…sure.”
And so they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence once more, the kind of which neither wanted to be rude enough to break away from the other. On the other end of the room, Vince climbed onto the red barber’s chair and shouted: “Oi, listen up! We’ve got Naboo’s Miracle Moustache Wax twenty percent off!” Howard looked back at the misogynistic Welsh prick, and sighed. It was going to be a long day.
November 20th
“I mean, I just don’t understand it, Vince. I’ve had this baby for years and it’s done nothing for me. Now suddenly it’s all hip and trendy…I just don’t know anymore.”
“I know.”
“I mean…who am I? Without my trademark, am I just another fading face in the background? Maybe I should pack it all in. Maybe I should grow a goatee?”
“Yeah, right.”
“But then again…It’s my look, Vince, a strong look, a powerful look. Why should I give it up? Who would even know me without my moustache?”
“Exactly. I totally understand.”
Howard paused. “Vince? Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
In the mirror, he saw Vince’s eyes flicker open. “Sorry. S’just, you’re really good at this. A little to the left…oh yeah. That’s it.”
Howard sighed and let his hand drop down. “I said I’d straighten your hair for this bloody party; the least you can do is acknowledge my pain and suffering.”
“Howard, there’s billionaires out there that are struggling more than you are,” Vince sighed as Howard ruffled up his hair again.
“Thanks a lot, Sunny Jim. It’s alright for some, isn’t it?”
Vince rubbed his finger against his moustache. “Whatever.”
Howard sighed, and applied the tongs to the final bit of frizz that had been irritating him for the last twenty minutes. “There you go. All done.”
Vince twisted his head to see every angle, and beamed. “Cheers, Howard, you’re a diamond!”
“Well, I’m Howard Moon, hairdresser extraordinaire, sir,” the Northerner replied, making a “pow” gesture with the Nicky Clarke’s. Vince sniggered, and then frowned momentarily at his reflection.
“Howard…?”
“Yeah, Little Man?”
Vince screwed his lips to one side of his face. “Can you…nah, s’nothing.”
Howard frowned. “What is it?”
“Nothing, s’just…can I borrow a moustache comb or something?”
Howard tried very, very hard not to laugh. “Beg pardon?”
Vince rolled his eyes. “Look, if you’re gonna laugh at me-”
“No, not at all, not me, no sir,” said Howard. He placed the straighteners on the vanity table, and withdrew a comb from a small drawer in his bedside table, where it lay nestled in an alphabetically-organised flock of waxes, scissors and razors. He handed it to his friend, who looked at it with an expression of combined confusion and anxiety. They stood there for a couple of tense seconds.
“Vince, do you even know how to do this properly?”
Vince fixed the mirror with a withering stare. “Why would I, Howard? I know about jumpsuits and sparkles, that’s how this works.”
Howard shook his head, and spun Vince’s chair around so that the mod’s cartoonish blue eyes were staring into his. Then he grabbed some wax from the drawer, and rubbed some on his fingers.
Vince watched him with nervous anticipation. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m just fixing you up, alright? Don’t look so nervous.”
“In all fairness, Howard, I have a right to be nervous,” Vince replied, casting an eye over Howard’s tweed jacket. The Northerner shot him a deadly look.
“Vince, do you want to go to this party looking like crap or not?”
Vince was silent. Howard smiled triumphantly, and smeared a little more wax onto his fingers, just the right amount. He then proceeded to apply the solution to Vince’s moustache, twirling it round at the edges and ignoring his friend’s muffled, awkward laughter. With intent concentration he continued, smoothing and evening the coarse hairs into a malleable position with the comb, as Vince stilled and tried not to move, occasionally snuffling hot puffs of air against Howard’s nails.
“There we go,” Howard said after a few minutes, capping the wax. “All done.”
Vince swivelled round to gaze at his reflection, and beamed.
“Thanks, Howard!” he grinned, twisting his head to admire it from every angle. Howard smiled victoriously.
“They call you the Midnight Barber; they call me the Midnight Moustache Groomer, yes sir,” he muttered.
Vince smirked. “Howard, you shouldn’t scar the poor ‘staches like that. They don’t deserve your big Northern hands violating their hairy innocence like that.”
“Shut up, Vince.”
November 25th
Howard thought he might have been in hell - purgatory, at best. This was everything he hated, and more. The music was too loud: some noisy electropop nonsense that Leroy was currently favouring, the house was way too hot, the drinks were few and the people many. The living room was absolutely stifling, clogged with a mixture of cigarette smoke and the sweat of the bright, pretty, moustachioed young things that were leaping about the living room, punching the air. Howard felt too uncomfortable and out-of-place in his best mossy turtleneck and smart cords, and had he been at home he would have been tempted to retreat into his and Vince’s room and stop the door with jazz.
Why had he ever thought it a good idea to tag along to a Movember party, anyway?
The answer was standing at the other end of the room, leaning against a wall and talking to a girl in a velvet catsuit. The dimmed lighting was creating subtle smudges on his chalky skin, his hair brushing smoothly against his forehead. He looked like a sketch by some French surrealist; a mish-mash of bold lines and smooth curves, confusing and comical but somehow oddly delicate. The whole effect was, however, somewhat marred by the ridiculous facial hair that sprawled distractingly right in the centre. It wasn’t right. It didn’t suit Vince at all; sat oddly with the contours of his face, like it was hiding a mistake the artist had hastily tried to cover up, even though there hadn’t been any mistake to begin with.
He had better make a note of this artistic metaphor, Howard thought. It was a better comparison than anything dairy-related.
He drained the rest of his drink - some fizzy peach-flavoured concoction his host had deemed a ‘Selleck Surprise’ - and as the next eleven-minute head-splitting track began to burrow its way into his neurons he decided enough was enough. He set the plastic cup neatly down on the table and began to push his way politely through the throng towards his friend. When Vince saw him he gave a grin that sent Howard reeling.
“Alright Howard!” he called above the music. The girl pouted, clearly unaccustomed to being ignored.
“I’m going to go back,” Howard mumbled, and Vince pulled a face and shook his head. With a slim hand he grabbed Howard’s shoulder and pulled him downwards, standing on his toes so that they were cheek-to-cheek.
“What d’ya say?” he shouted into Howard’s ear.
“I said I’m going to go back!” Howard returned, pondering on how oddly pleasant it was to have Vince’s warm, tipsy breath trickling down his neck; his hair prickling at his temple.
Vince nodded. “Yeah, alright…” he started to say, but the rest of his sentence was drowned out by the music.
“What?” Howard shouted back.
“I said I’ll come with you!”
Howard frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Course I am, you Satsuma!” Vince turned back to the girl. “Great to see you,” he smiled and planted a kiss on her cheek. As the girl’s eyes welled up with tears he turned back to Howard and said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
The night outside was as bitter as Leroy’s house had been hot, and when Vince breathed outwards the air melted around him. In the darkness he looked a bit like Frank Zappa - or maybe Vlad the Impaler.
“Cheers, Howard,” he said as he shut the front door behind him. “Didn’t fancy walkin’ through that carpark by myself.”
Howard felt his chest ballooning with pride. “Well, sir, I’m Howard Moon, eh? I rain down the pain. If someone pulled out a knife I’d come at them with my fists of fury.”
“Really?” Vince giggled.
“That’s right, sir. One look at me and ow, they’d flee into the night.”
“You’re about as dangerous as a spatula.”
“Well, spatulas can cause a lot of damage, Vince. Haven’t you ever heard of Little Timmy Spatulahands?”
Vince shook his head. “Did he have spatulas for hands?”
“No, he had them for feet. He could kick any mugger into the 17th Century. You’d sneak up to Timmy with a pistol and then ow you’d be in the stocks being convicted for witchcraft.”
Vince laughed at that, and his moustache bounced on his upper lip. Howard felt his insides folding up into a neat little cube, but for the life of him he couldn’t quite figure out why.
It was probably the Selleck Surprise.
November 30th
“I thought you were going out?”
Vince glanced up from where he was curled up under a blanket on the sofa, eyes as wide as a bushbaby.
“Are you out of your mind, Howard?” he asked, more serious than he had ever been before. “Have you gone wrong? I can’t go out tonight!”
“But, I thought, with the shaving parties…”
“Exactly!” Vince exclaimed. “What if someone takes a photo of me with half a moustache? It’ll be circulating round Shoreditch in half a minute. There’ll be riots from here to Camden Lock. I’ll be at a state of vulnerability, Howard. People can’t be allowed to see that!”
Howard held up his hands pacifyingly. “Whoa, Little Man, alright. It’s what’s inside that counts, remember?”
“Yeah,” Vince scoffed, “You try telling Jean-Claude Jacquetti that.”
“Well…” Howard sighed. “I’m making a quiche, d’you want some?”
Vince ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that’d be genius.”
They ate the quiche in front of the telly, Vince reclining under a mountain of pillows and Howard perched on the edge. It was a nice feeling, just sitting there. Howard didn’t say anything when his friend’s feet prodded once or twice ‘accidentally’ into his hip. He didn’t even complain when Vince changed the channel from a documentary on bookmarks through the ages to an episode of Colobos the Crab. Being with Vince like this, comfortable in their silence, was one of the things he’d missed most when he’d been in Denmark. He was so relaxed that when Vince suddenly cast away the blanket and leapt up, exclaiming, “Christy, it’s 11:55!” he nearly fell off the sofa in surprise.
“What?”
“S’nearly midnight, Howard!” Vince tugged at his wrist, forcing him to stand up. “You’ve got to help me, c’mon.”
Howard allowed himself to be pulled along to the bathroom, wincing at the sudden harsh glare when Vince flicked on the lights. His friend was already busying himself with razors and shaving foam, clattering around the small room like a glittery, moustachioed whirlwind. He began to run the hot water and pull towels from the cupboard.
“Keep an eye on the time,” he instructed, and Howard glanced down at his watch.
“Thirty seconds.”
Vince dipped the towel in the sink and pressed it to his face, holding it there as the second hand ticked closer to the hour.
“Ten, nine, eight…” Howard counted. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Midnight.”
Vince let out a whoop of delight as he uncapped the shaving cream and began to smother his face in it. Then, with a smooth motion, he began to shave the moustache away. Howard felt his own upper lip cringe in sympathy as hundreds of sleek black hairs fell away like shavings from a pencil sharpener. When it was done, Vince laid the razor down like it was sacred and turned away from the mirror with an expression of pure glee, his face clear, unblemished and unashamedly pleased.
“I did it!” he grinned, and Howard felt his stomach scrunching up again.
“Well done, Little Man.”
Vince cheered and flung his arms around Howard’s neck in a celebratory movement. Howard clumsily placed his hands on Vince’s back, feeling every ripple of the bones underneath. For a long moment they stood there, motionless. Then Vince pulled his head back, turning it so that their noses nearly collided. Before Howard could say anything, their mouths had been pressed together. Vince’s lips were cracked and still a bit damp from the water, and his breath tasted of quiche, but it was still probably the best kiss Howard had ever experienced in his whole life. As soon as he began to reciprocate Vince pressed closer against him, winding a hand into his hair. Howard felt he should probably respond, but he was struggling to remember what movement was.
When they finally drew apart for air Vince was still grinning like a madman.
“Um, Vince…” Howard said. “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that?”
Vince shook his head. “Well, I’m not being funny, Howard, but New Year’s a whole month away and I couldn’t really be bothered to wait.”
“Um, ok, fair enough,” Howard stuttered. “Why now?”
“I dunno,” Vince shrugged. “Seemed like a good moment. I mean, I know you got all insecure coz you thought I’d stop noticing you if I grew a moustache or whatever, so I thought maybe this might be symbolic or something.” He was beginning to go pink around the ears. “I ain’t much good with metaphors but I really, really fancy you, Howard, so maybe if I could just kiss you again…?”
Howard blinked, increasingly aware that their bodies were still locked together. “Yeah, that would be quite nice.”
So Vince kissed him again, slowly and a little more unsurely, their mouths bumping together like clouds.
“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Howard mumbled when he pulled away again. “But I really…like you as well, Vince. I think I always have.”
“Well, that’s lucky,” Vince laughed. “Otherwise I’d have to shave your ‘stache off in your sleep.” He kissed Howard’s cheek once more. “And look, see, I told you so.”
“Told me what?”
Vince - beautiful, radiant, moustache-less Vince - bit his lip with a smile. “I told you your whole life had been leading up to this month,” he said, before closing the gap between them.
November 1st
It was as if everything he had ever loved about the world - every jazz LP, every issue of Global Explorer, every tweed jacket and Hawaiian shirt, every bit of stationary, every elbow patch, every scat solo, every shade of brown, every pancake, every trumpet and every bookmark, everything that made his universe great - had been piled at his feet and burned to a crisp before his very eyes.
“What the hell is that?”
Vince beamed with childlike glee, and did a three-sixty spin on the toe of his white platform boot. “D’you like it?”
“What is that…monstrosity?”
Vince laughed. “Surely you should know that.”
Howard did know. Howard knew very well. He’d seen this image reflected in bathroom mirrors countless times from when he was young. He recognised all too well that Jackson Pollock splashing; that worn-toothbrush look. But never had he thought it would ever come to this. For it was true:
Vince Noir, rock and roll star, was growing a moustache.
“Well, yeah, but…why?” Howard replied. Vince stroked the beginnings of brown stubble across his upper lip where he purposely hadn’t shaved that morning.
“It’s Movember, Howard.”
Howard frowned so hard his eyes nearly disappeared altogether. “What?”
His friend rolled his own eyes with the air of someone explaining an iPhone to their granddad. “Movember. It’s where you grow a moustache throughout November to raise awareness for prostrate cancer. It’s a bit like NaNoWriMo but with facial hair.”
“I thought we were never going to mention that again, Vince,” said Howard, his eyes darting beadily around the room to where there absolutely could not be a missing fourth wall. “Not after last time.”
Vince tutted fondly. “Whatever. So do you like it?”
Howard folded his arms. “I dunno, Vince.”
A flash of lightning shot through Vince’s eyes. “What?”
“Well, it’s not really you, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just not really your style.”
Vince shook his head. “Everything’s my style. I am style.
"No, Vince, this isn’t you. You’re heading down a slippery slop to mockery and ridicule. Believe me, I know.”
“People won’t mock me, Howard,” Vince replied confidently. Howard felt beads of sweat begin to break above his brow as he furiously protested.
“Oh, yes they will. You’ll be in the gutters of fashion before you can blink, sir.”
“No I won’t.”
Howard squinted his eyes into nonexistence. “Very soon.”
Vince paused for a moment, and a look akin to understanding bloomed across his face, caressing his cheekbones. He grinned impishly.
“Howard, are you feeling threatened?”
Howard folded his arms again. “I most certainly am not, sir.”
“Yeah you are!” Vince crowed. “You’re threatened because I’m growing a moustache!”
Howard sighed. “Yeah, Vince, I am a little bit. This is my look; a good look, a strong look. It’s not a look for futuristic prostitutes. I’m bringing the moustache back, not you!”
“Yeah, but, you didn’t really bring it back, did you, Howard? You dragged it to a ditch in Leeds in the 1950s and left it there to die.”
Howard slumped down into the chair behind the counter. Vince placed a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, ignoring the muffled “Don’t touch me,” in response.
“Come on, Howard, don’t be like that. It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad, Vince? This is my life, my livelihood. Maybe I should shave it off.”
“Woah now, let’s not be hasty here,” Vince chuckled nervously. “Trust me, it’ll be great. You’ve already got a ‘stache, the girls are gonna love you!”
Howard sighed morosely. “You think so?”
If Vince noticed the pessimistic tone behind the words that usually provoked gleeful excitement in his friend, he didn’t show it. Instead he cried: “Course they will! This is your month, Howard. A month where everyone likes jazz and stationary!”
Howard frowned up at his friend. “Even you?”
Vince made a face. “Well, no, but it’s charity what counts, right? Come on, Howard. Your whole life has been leading up to this month.”
“I suppose.” Howard stared warily at the flecks of stubble that he was sure soon would transform into a rich and worthy competitor for his mocha stain. It seemed Vince always outshone him, these days.
“It’ll be great, I promise!” Vince beamed, and he swooped off upstairs to admire his new facial hair, leaving Howard sighing woefully in the shop below.
November 12th
The shop doorbell tinkled, and Howard looked up expectantly. His face fell as two more moustachioed men came sidling into the shop: one with fluorescent orange hair and an aquamarine checked jumpsuit and the other in a tartan cape and oversized sunglasses. The hipsters pottered around for a moment before joining the mass of people who were currently crowded into the shop. Vince was amongst them, happily mingling in the buzzing crowd and sporting a proud Dali-esque twirl of a ‘stache. It was a silly, flippant little thing in Howard’s opinion. Vince’s moustache might have been amusing to look at, sure, but could it keep a man’s upper lip warm in the Arctic Tundra? Howard didn’t think so, no sir.
“Hey, guys, if you buy stuff, fifty percent of the profits go to Movember, yeah?” Vince cried out above the hubbub, and a cheer rose from the crowd. Howard rolled his eyes. Sure, they wanted tweed elbow patches now, but a man of substance like him would wear his for a lifetime. These trendy people, these social butterflies whipping about on the winds of fashion like…well, butterflies; give them until December the first and they’d drop this foray into the world of the gentleman like a hot dinner. Howard had seen Vince go through many fashions in his time - Goth, mod, punk, steampunk, French revolutionary, that embarrassing week where he’d dressed like a Russian serf - and none of them ever lasted more than a month.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vince and his stupid curls sidle over to the counter.
“Hey, Howard, you alright?” his friend chirped with a cheerful grin. Before Howard could reply, though, he’d said: “Look, here’s someone I want you to meet,” and dragged over a young man with a pencil moustache, a top hat and a faintly bemused expression.
“Howard, this is Marvyn, with a Y. He likes jazz!”
And before Howard could say, “Wait, Little Man, you know I’m appalling in social situations,” Vince had bounced over to where Mama Zoom was drawing moustaches on pieces of toast in eyeliner. Howard eyed the stranger warily, and tried for a smile.
“Hello, Marvyn,” he said. Marvyn looked as if he desperately wanted to be anywhere but where he was. “So, you like jazz?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Marvyn-with-a-Y in a thick Welsh accent. “Bonobo, Little Dragon, Xploding Plastix…”
Howard frowned. “Weather Report?”
“Never heard of them, mate.”
“They’re a sort of jazz fusion-”
“I’ll be honest with you…Harold, was it?” interrupted Marvyn. “I’m not really big on anything pre-1990. I think music’s gotta move with the time, know what I mean?”
“I have to be honest, I’m not sure I do.”
“Oh. Right.”
An awkward silence broke. Howard scratched the back of his neck.
After a moment Marvyn gestured to his face. “I like your moustache. How long did it take you to grow?”
“This? Oh, I’ve had this for…” Howard thought back, but couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he’d decided he’d wanted to grow facial hair in the first place. “A while.”
“It’s not a Mo-Grow?” asked Marvyn with a shocked expression.
“I don’t…think so?”
“Oh. Right,” Marvyn shrugged. “I’m only here for the birds anyway. They love a little bit of fuzz up there, eh? Gagging for it.”
“Um…sure.”
And so they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence once more, the kind of which neither wanted to be rude enough to break away from the other. On the other end of the room, Vince climbed onto the red barber’s chair and shouted: “Oi, listen up! We’ve got Naboo’s Miracle Moustache Wax twenty percent off!” Howard looked back at the misogynistic Welsh prick, and sighed. It was going to be a long day.
November 20th
“I mean, I just don’t understand it, Vince. I’ve had this baby for years and it’s done nothing for me. Now suddenly it’s all hip and trendy…I just don’t know anymore.”
“I know.”
“I mean…who am I? Without my trademark, am I just another fading face in the background? Maybe I should pack it all in. Maybe I should grow a goatee?”
“Yeah, right.”
“But then again…It’s my look, Vince, a strong look, a powerful look. Why should I give it up? Who would even know me without my moustache?”
“Exactly. I totally understand.”
Howard paused. “Vince? Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
In the mirror, he saw Vince’s eyes flicker open. “Sorry. S’just, you’re really good at this. A little to the left…oh yeah. That’s it.”
Howard sighed and let his hand drop down. “I said I’d straighten your hair for this bloody party; the least you can do is acknowledge my pain and suffering.”
“Howard, there’s billionaires out there that are struggling more than you are,” Vince sighed as Howard ruffled up his hair again.
“Thanks a lot, Sunny Jim. It’s alright for some, isn’t it?”
Vince rubbed his finger against his moustache. “Whatever.”
Howard sighed, and applied the tongs to the final bit of frizz that had been irritating him for the last twenty minutes. “There you go. All done.”
Vince twisted his head to see every angle, and beamed. “Cheers, Howard, you’re a diamond!”
“Well, I’m Howard Moon, hairdresser extraordinaire, sir,” the Northerner replied, making a “pow” gesture with the Nicky Clarke’s. Vince sniggered, and then frowned momentarily at his reflection.
“Howard…?”
“Yeah, Little Man?”
Vince screwed his lips to one side of his face. “Can you…nah, s’nothing.”
Howard frowned. “What is it?”
“Nothing, s’just…can I borrow a moustache comb or something?”
Howard tried very, very hard not to laugh. “Beg pardon?”
Vince rolled his eyes. “Look, if you’re gonna laugh at me-”
“No, not at all, not me, no sir,” said Howard. He placed the straighteners on the vanity table, and withdrew a comb from a small drawer in his bedside table, where it lay nestled in an alphabetically-organised flock of waxes, scissors and razors. He handed it to his friend, who looked at it with an expression of combined confusion and anxiety. They stood there for a couple of tense seconds.
“Vince, do you even know how to do this properly?”
Vince fixed the mirror with a withering stare. “Why would I, Howard? I know about jumpsuits and sparkles, that’s how this works.”
Howard shook his head, and spun Vince’s chair around so that the mod’s cartoonish blue eyes were staring into his. Then he grabbed some wax from the drawer, and rubbed some on his fingers.
Vince watched him with nervous anticipation. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m just fixing you up, alright? Don’t look so nervous.”
“In all fairness, Howard, I have a right to be nervous,” Vince replied, casting an eye over Howard’s tweed jacket. The Northerner shot him a deadly look.
“Vince, do you want to go to this party looking like crap or not?”
Vince was silent. Howard smiled triumphantly, and smeared a little more wax onto his fingers, just the right amount. He then proceeded to apply the solution to Vince’s moustache, twirling it round at the edges and ignoring his friend’s muffled, awkward laughter. With intent concentration he continued, smoothing and evening the coarse hairs into a malleable position with the comb, as Vince stilled and tried not to move, occasionally snuffling hot puffs of air against Howard’s nails.
“There we go,” Howard said after a few minutes, capping the wax. “All done.”
Vince swivelled round to gaze at his reflection, and beamed.
“Thanks, Howard!” he grinned, twisting his head to admire it from every angle. Howard smiled victoriously.
“They call you the Midnight Barber; they call me the Midnight Moustache Groomer, yes sir,” he muttered.
Vince smirked. “Howard, you shouldn’t scar the poor ‘staches like that. They don’t deserve your big Northern hands violating their hairy innocence like that.”
“Shut up, Vince.”
November 25th
Howard thought he might have been in hell - purgatory, at best. This was everything he hated, and more. The music was too loud: some noisy electropop nonsense that Leroy was currently favouring, the house was way too hot, the drinks were few and the people many. The living room was absolutely stifling, clogged with a mixture of cigarette smoke and the sweat of the bright, pretty, moustachioed young things that were leaping about the living room, punching the air. Howard felt too uncomfortable and out-of-place in his best mossy turtleneck and smart cords, and had he been at home he would have been tempted to retreat into his and Vince’s room and stop the door with jazz.
Why had he ever thought it a good idea to tag along to a Movember party, anyway?
The answer was standing at the other end of the room, leaning against a wall and talking to a girl in a velvet catsuit. The dimmed lighting was creating subtle smudges on his chalky skin, his hair brushing smoothly against his forehead. He looked like a sketch by some French surrealist; a mish-mash of bold lines and smooth curves, confusing and comical but somehow oddly delicate. The whole effect was, however, somewhat marred by the ridiculous facial hair that sprawled distractingly right in the centre. It wasn’t right. It didn’t suit Vince at all; sat oddly with the contours of his face, like it was hiding a mistake the artist had hastily tried to cover up, even though there hadn’t been any mistake to begin with.
He had better make a note of this artistic metaphor, Howard thought. It was a better comparison than anything dairy-related.
He drained the rest of his drink - some fizzy peach-flavoured concoction his host had deemed a ‘Selleck Surprise’ - and as the next eleven-minute head-splitting track began to burrow its way into his neurons he decided enough was enough. He set the plastic cup neatly down on the table and began to push his way politely through the throng towards his friend. When Vince saw him he gave a grin that sent Howard reeling.
“Alright Howard!” he called above the music. The girl pouted, clearly unaccustomed to being ignored.
“I’m going to go back,” Howard mumbled, and Vince pulled a face and shook his head. With a slim hand he grabbed Howard’s shoulder and pulled him downwards, standing on his toes so that they were cheek-to-cheek.
“What d’ya say?” he shouted into Howard’s ear.
“I said I’m going to go back!” Howard returned, pondering on how oddly pleasant it was to have Vince’s warm, tipsy breath trickling down his neck; his hair prickling at his temple.
Vince nodded. “Yeah, alright…” he started to say, but the rest of his sentence was drowned out by the music.
“What?” Howard shouted back.
“I said I’ll come with you!”
Howard frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Course I am, you Satsuma!” Vince turned back to the girl. “Great to see you,” he smiled and planted a kiss on her cheek. As the girl’s eyes welled up with tears he turned back to Howard and said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
The night outside was as bitter as Leroy’s house had been hot, and when Vince breathed outwards the air melted around him. In the darkness he looked a bit like Frank Zappa - or maybe Vlad the Impaler.
“Cheers, Howard,” he said as he shut the front door behind him. “Didn’t fancy walkin’ through that carpark by myself.”
Howard felt his chest ballooning with pride. “Well, sir, I’m Howard Moon, eh? I rain down the pain. If someone pulled out a knife I’d come at them with my fists of fury.”
“Really?” Vince giggled.
“That’s right, sir. One look at me and ow, they’d flee into the night.”
“You’re about as dangerous as a spatula.”
“Well, spatulas can cause a lot of damage, Vince. Haven’t you ever heard of Little Timmy Spatulahands?”
Vince shook his head. “Did he have spatulas for hands?”
“No, he had them for feet. He could kick any mugger into the 17th Century. You’d sneak up to Timmy with a pistol and then ow you’d be in the stocks being convicted for witchcraft.”
Vince laughed at that, and his moustache bounced on his upper lip. Howard felt his insides folding up into a neat little cube, but for the life of him he couldn’t quite figure out why.
It was probably the Selleck Surprise.
November 30th
“I thought you were going out?”
Vince glanced up from where he was curled up under a blanket on the sofa, eyes as wide as a bushbaby.
“Are you out of your mind, Howard?” he asked, more serious than he had ever been before. “Have you gone wrong? I can’t go out tonight!”
“But, I thought, with the shaving parties…”
“Exactly!” Vince exclaimed. “What if someone takes a photo of me with half a moustache? It’ll be circulating round Shoreditch in half a minute. There’ll be riots from here to Camden Lock. I’ll be at a state of vulnerability, Howard. People can’t be allowed to see that!”
Howard held up his hands pacifyingly. “Whoa, Little Man, alright. It’s what’s inside that counts, remember?”
“Yeah,” Vince scoffed, “You try telling Jean-Claude Jacquetti that.”
“Well…” Howard sighed. “I’m making a quiche, d’you want some?”
Vince ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that’d be genius.”
They ate the quiche in front of the telly, Vince reclining under a mountain of pillows and Howard perched on the edge. It was a nice feeling, just sitting there. Howard didn’t say anything when his friend’s feet prodded once or twice ‘accidentally’ into his hip. He didn’t even complain when Vince changed the channel from a documentary on bookmarks through the ages to an episode of Colobos the Crab. Being with Vince like this, comfortable in their silence, was one of the things he’d missed most when he’d been in Denmark. He was so relaxed that when Vince suddenly cast away the blanket and leapt up, exclaiming, “Christy, it’s 11:55!” he nearly fell off the sofa in surprise.
“What?”
“S’nearly midnight, Howard!” Vince tugged at his wrist, forcing him to stand up. “You’ve got to help me, c’mon.”
Howard allowed himself to be pulled along to the bathroom, wincing at the sudden harsh glare when Vince flicked on the lights. His friend was already busying himself with razors and shaving foam, clattering around the small room like a glittery, moustachioed whirlwind. He began to run the hot water and pull towels from the cupboard.
“Keep an eye on the time,” he instructed, and Howard glanced down at his watch.
“Thirty seconds.”
Vince dipped the towel in the sink and pressed it to his face, holding it there as the second hand ticked closer to the hour.
“Ten, nine, eight…” Howard counted. “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Midnight.”
Vince let out a whoop of delight as he uncapped the shaving cream and began to smother his face in it. Then, with a smooth motion, he began to shave the moustache away. Howard felt his own upper lip cringe in sympathy as hundreds of sleek black hairs fell away like shavings from a pencil sharpener. When it was done, Vince laid the razor down like it was sacred and turned away from the mirror with an expression of pure glee, his face clear, unblemished and unashamedly pleased.
“I did it!” he grinned, and Howard felt his stomach scrunching up again.
“Well done, Little Man.”
Vince cheered and flung his arms around Howard’s neck in a celebratory movement. Howard clumsily placed his hands on Vince’s back, feeling every ripple of the bones underneath. For a long moment they stood there, motionless. Then Vince pulled his head back, turning it so that their noses nearly collided. Before Howard could say anything, their mouths had been pressed together. Vince’s lips were cracked and still a bit damp from the water, and his breath tasted of quiche, but it was still probably the best kiss Howard had ever experienced in his whole life. As soon as he began to reciprocate Vince pressed closer against him, winding a hand into his hair. Howard felt he should probably respond, but he was struggling to remember what movement was.
When they finally drew apart for air Vince was still grinning like a madman.
“Um, Vince…” Howard said. “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that?”
Vince shook his head. “Well, I’m not being funny, Howard, but New Year’s a whole month away and I couldn’t really be bothered to wait.”
“Um, ok, fair enough,” Howard stuttered. “Why now?”
“I dunno,” Vince shrugged. “Seemed like a good moment. I mean, I know you got all insecure coz you thought I’d stop noticing you if I grew a moustache or whatever, so I thought maybe this might be symbolic or something.” He was beginning to go pink around the ears. “I ain’t much good with metaphors but I really, really fancy you, Howard, so maybe if I could just kiss you again…?”
Howard blinked, increasingly aware that their bodies were still locked together. “Yeah, that would be quite nice.”
So Vince kissed him again, slowly and a little more unsurely, their mouths bumping together like clouds.
“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Howard mumbled when he pulled away again. “But I really…like you as well, Vince. I think I always have.”
“Well, that’s lucky,” Vince laughed. “Otherwise I’d have to shave your ‘stache off in your sleep.” He kissed Howard’s cheek once more. “And look, see, I told you so.”
“Told me what?”
Vince - beautiful, radiant, moustache-less Vince - bit his lip with a smile. “I told you your whole life had been leading up to this month,” he said, before closing the gap between them.