With great mustache, comes great responsibility

The weekend after Declan's return from his summer visit with his mother I unexpectedly grew bored with my mustache and goatee. Shaving them seemed like a simple change at the time and I gave it no more thought than I would have when changing a shirt. My loving children, on the other hand, did not approve of my new look.

"What did you do Dad!" Declan exclaimed with an unexpected alarmed tone in his voice. He raised his hand and rubbed his own chin as he continued to chide me.

I attempted to downplay my newly clean-shaven look but Declan wasn't buying my response.

"I hate it!" he said loudly, "so I hate...you." The volume of his voice dropped dramatically before the last word escaped his lips in a near whisper. It was as if he attempted to stop himself from finishing the sentence, but wasn't able to come up with an alternative phrase in time.

Declan knows one of my biggest pet peeves is his use of the word hate, in any context. The wide-eyed look I gave him was all that was needed and he immediately began backpedaling.

"I just liked you with a beard a lot more," he said, throwing in his patented, raised arm, I want a hug jesture.

The hug worked but I gave him my well practiced lecture on not using the word hate, just for good measure.

My daughter is quiet and more reserved, compared to the little man, so it took me a little longer to figure out she didn't approve of my new look either. I was baffled for some time with why she would repeatedly look away and appear to be stifling giggles, every time I walked into a room.

She had a friend spend the night a few days after my impromptu shaving session, one who was less capable of hiding her laughter than Shawn. After a couple of confrontations, during which I demanded with a chuckle to know what the heck the pair of girls found so funny, I eventually realized my missing facial hair was to blame.

Once the source was identified it no longer bothered me, I attacked the situation with my usual jesture-like approach and began making fun of myself. Another example of the "unofficial training" I received as an 18-year-old in the U.S. Army. It effectively takes the sting out of criticism if you throw it at yourself with a laugh, before anyone else can.

I think my best bits came in the form of referencing to myself as Pac-Man. My bald head, a suddenly odd looking chin, it was a clever fit. As far as I was concerned my daughter was laughing at my humorous personality from that point forward, and I may have grown a little too fond of mimicking the "wokka-wokka-wokka" sound every time I passed by her room.

The change was anticlimactic at work.

"What's different? Did you have a mustache or something?" our editor asked me when I returned.

"Did I have a mustache?" I thought to myself, "only the second best mustache in town." The conversation reminded me of my favorite T-shirt, which reads, "With great mustache, comes great responsibility."

The responsibility must have become too much for me when coupled with the summer heat. Oh well, I can always spend the fall and winter re-growing it and perhaps win back the favor of my children. Assuming of course, I don't grow too fond of the Pac-Man dialogue.