My dad grew a mustache after my parents got married. And some splendid sideburns. Why not? It was the late sixties.

Nowadays, he would have been celebrated every Movember. My mother apparently was not pro-mustache. She asked him nicely, then wheedled, then nagged him to shave it off, all to no avail. My father didn’t say no to my mother often, so you can imagine just how much he loved this ‘stache.

One night he had a few too many beers with some friends, and passed out. When he arose the next morning and sidled blearily to the mirror, he was quickly sobered by the fact that the face reflected back to him was different. The left side was the same as he’d remembered the night before. The right side was shaven clean.

He had a half a mustache.

My mom typically got what she wanted in the end.