Monday, June 22, 2015

Musings over mustaches

Do you ever have those moments in life where you just feel like you’re in the middle of a Shakespearean play?
   Now I doubt you see ghosts or world rulers being stabbed in the back (except politically), but maybe in the more ordinary parts of life? Like a discussion about fake mustaches?
   The following is based on a true encounter from my Bible study with friends last week, that I went to bed thinking about and thought how it would have been funnier in Shakespearean dialogue. Granted, I haven’t read any Shakespeare in over a decade, so this is a pretty watered down imagining, but it still made me chuckle.

Ryan: “And you, Christopher, a man of good spirits and high hilarity, for what may we humble friends pray for you?”
   Christopher: “Well, my good companions, whilst often I have little to bring before you in prayer, except for such things that may be concerning me about my friends and loved ones, this week I have a consideration about myself on which I would appreciate intercession to our heavenly Father on my behalf.
   “Tomorrow morn will mark the first time in the past two fortnights that I have had opportunity to perform a storytime for the spirited children of Eldersburg. Whilst it is true that I am a librarian for children stationed in that unpretentious burg, greater powers have kept me away from my primary task of the telling of tales, which I enjoy doing with great enthusiasm, making no small effort to win over the hearts and attention of even the most indifferent toddler to the grumpiest of grandmas, with enthusiastic stories, delightful songs, and even a little jig when the situation calls for it. I have won quite a following in the region, with my storytimes seeing double—nay! triple—the crowds from all other storytimes in my age range. But even a storysmith is sometimes must partake in the humdrummeries of industry, which accounts for my absence all these weeks.
   “Whilst in many ways I look forward to my triumphant return to-morrow, to again win over hearts (and hugs) from my minions and hear their mirthful chatter, the catch of it is that only a week hence, I shall miss my next appearance again, so it seems like a terrible tease for me to be coming and then going, with nary an explanation for discontinuous record.
   “But perhaps a great tease may be what will please…A delightful idea has hatched in my Puck-ish brain—to disguise my persona, perhaps by the means of a clever hat and artful (and artificial) mustache. Being of just pre-school age, I do not know whether the younguns will see through my ruse, but I shall vehemently deny being their hero, “Mr. Chris,” for as long as it amuses me.
   “Now if only I had a stash of ‘staches that I could turn to for such an act of knavery as this situation has presented.”
   Carrie: “Ho, do not fret, friend, for would you know it, but not five years ago, when visiting a charming apothecary of joke stuffs, I came across a package with no less than eight mustaches. So delightful were the variety and humor of the mustaches, and not knowing whence I would pass that way again, I partook of the opportunity to trade four golden coins for the masquerading mustaches.
   “Whilst they brought a chuckle to my throat and glow in my cheeks while at the store, their joyous nature faded upon my voyage homeward. I have had no such occasion yet where it would be apropros, nor appropriate, nor appreciated, to break open the packaging binding the mustaches on display and affix it to my face. Each one sits preserved in time, out of way from dust and moth, yet I cannot deny they look a little older than when first they became my treasure. Then again, do I not look older too? Time chases after each of us, though disguising ourselves from it we may try, with or without the use of mustaches, the effort remains in vain.”
   Chris: “What joy! Dearest Caroline, how thoust has lightened my heart, for I thought my disguise would be doomed without that pinnacle piece — a marauder’s mustache! For a hat, whatever size or style, cannot conceal the face, lest it be a ski mask, which I fear would frighten the children so that they might never come to storytime again—nay, might never enjoy a storybook at home again, neither, for fear of the ski-masked man coming to their homes with an encyclopedia of deadly girth, apeeking in their windows and waiting for his opportunity to strike.
   “Couldst thou spare me a mustache? Might you give me counsel on which best suits my face? Or perhaps it should not suit. After all, the purpose behind this cunning trickery tis to fool the children, to have my face look unsuitable. I must look most un-like “Mr. Chris” come Monday. Perhaps I should wear a monocle as well?”

   And there you have it. “It ain’t Shakespeare,” as they say, but perhaps I should have strove for Chaucer.

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