As the son of a bald man and the grandson of a man with a strikingly
bold mustache, it's no wonder that Archer has developed a sort of
Pavlovian love for men with few hairs on their heads and much hair on
their faces. The attraction is instant. A man with a mustache gets
behind in line at the Trader Joes' checkout and Archer is immediately
smitten. "Hi!" He usually says, breaking the ice before blowing a
thousand and one kisses and flailing at the poor confused man, offering
him spastic hugs.
"It's your mustache," I find myself saying on such occasions. "My son has a thing for mustaches."
"Oh...
kay." is the usual response, followed by ten awkward minutes of me
trying to distract Archer from the stranger's stache with Pirate's
Booty
Unfortunately for Archer, the mustache has been
added to the endangered species list in recent years. Unfairly stolen
from the modern man by porn-stars and Tom Seleck and worse: mocked by
urban hipsters who choose to wear the mustache as an ironic statement.
Totally selling-short the classic-rock that is the old-school mustache.
Take my dad, for instance. He's been all 'stached up for thirty some-odd years! That shit's vintage. A classic. Viva la mustachelucion!
The
bald head is another must-have accessory for anyone who wants to
befriend Archer in any real way and over the weekend it was clear to
all of us that the "bald man" was indeed the "ideal man" when it came
to being a trusted confidante and compadre to Archer while traveling.
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