Work Text:
Bahorel hadn’t notice that his favorite store in Logan Square, “Beers of Yore, Beers of You,” had been replaced until he stepped inside it, because he didn’t make a habit of reading signs when he was too busy reading the people around him.
There were mustaches everywhere: on pencils, on purses, on t-shirts, on clothespins, on boots, knives, milk jugs, underwear, everything CONCEIVABLE was mustachio’d. He reeled under the force of so many imperfect self-reflections of his own mustache, the mustache multiplied until it was a mockery.
Bellowing discontent, he approached the clerk of the mustachery, who was sporting a waxed handlebar mustache and weighed about 1/3 of a Bahorel.
"Why?" Bahorel demanded, tugging at his own mustache. He had had a mustache since the 1980s, when it was a secret shared between him and Tom Selleck alone.
"They’re really popular right now, but like, in a very counter-culture way. The Man doesn’t want you to have a mustache."
This was not what he actually said, but Bahorel had a limited ability to understand people under 25, as he was around 40, so that’s how it sounded to him.
"But this is my statement," Bahorel said. He felt a growing hollow in his chest, normally filled by his proudly unshaven hair and also a bit of a cholesterol problem.
"And now it’s everyone’s. That’s how democracy works. Nice soft grunge look, by the way. You should post some selfies on Instagram."
"I don’t know what that is; I don’t even own a TV," Bahorel replied, struggling to gather the rest of his dignity around him so he could storm out of the store.
"Yeah, I got rid of my TV a few years back. I don’t miss it, not with my vinyl collection and my streaming service to my iPhone."
"Some of us like vinyl because we remember when it was all we had!"
Bahorel was going to shave immediately, and possibly also start dressing like his dad.