I am not overly familiar with Robin Thicke. I am not a huge follower of pop music because I cannot possibly keep up with all four quadrants of the pop-culture landscape. My contemporary musical knowledge essentially extends to the radio one station I occasionally listen to, which I assume is called the “Mumford and Sons” station because Mumford, and bands that sound like Mumford, are all that it plays. It does not, however, play Thicke’s song of the summer, “Blurred Lines,” but because a song like “Blurred Lines” has seeped so deeply into the cultural landscape, hearing it on occasion is unavoidable. It does not offend my ears.
Nevertheless, I = understand that there is some controversy surrounding the sexist lyrics to “Blurred Lines,” and though I am not a person who listen to lyrics, I can confirm their sexist nature because anytime my wife hears the song, the hairs on her arms stand on end, and she has the some kind of conniption fit in which the words degrading, disgusting, and offensive erupt from her mouth simultaneously, creating a sound not unlike Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist. All I hear when I listen to the song is a high-pitched male singing, “hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” but I do not doubt that in between the “heys,” he is saying something that my wife is rightfully worked up about.
I also know that he is married to Paula Patton, which I know because I am very familiar with Paula Patton, because she belongs within the pop-culture quadrant I do follow. I don’t think that Robin Thicke deserves Paula Patton, but that is not necessarily a slight against Thicke. I would think the same of any man. Patton is gorgeous, and legitimately brilliant, having graduated from USC film school with honors, before beginning her career as a documentary producer. She fills me with joy.
All of this is really neither here nor there, however, because what I want to talk about is Thicke’s moustache.
I hate it.
Whatever feelings that the lyrics in his song provokes in my wife cannot possibly offend her as much as that sh*tty, wispy little moustache offends me. I don’t know if this makes me get-off-the-lawner, but I am of the opinion that there are three possibilities when it comes to facial hair. You can shave it, you can grow it, and you can trim your if it gets so unruly that you are mistaken for a hobo. Mustache sculpting is not acceptable.
This is what Robin Thicke’s moustache should look like.
Do you see how his moustache fills in the entire space between his upper lip and his nose? That is how a moustache should look. It should not look like this:
I suspect there is a lot of maintenance involved in keeping the area beneath the nose hair-free, and while I am certainly not bothered with how a man chooses to fill his time, I find that this particular effect places Robin Thicke somewhere on the douchebag spectrum beneath say, Joe Francis, but above those who would wear sailboats on their T-shirts. Perhaps this is irrational, but I find moustache-scaping to be a deep, personal character flaw, and I am therefore more susceptible to believing all of the vile, outrageous things that people have said about Thicke.
Because of the precision involved in keeping a moustache that pencil thin, I also suspect there are also often mistakes, which necessitates that Thicke must shave completely and start all over.
Alas, there are no sunglasses large enough to cover one’s lack of facial hair. Only time and patience can bring it back.
Here’s the thing, gentlemen. Before you decide to Bonsai Tree your moustaches, ask yourself three simple questions.
1. Am I Clark Gable?
2. Am I John Waters?
3. Am I Prince?
If the answer to any of the above questions is no, then you mustn’t attempt to sculpt your moustaches. You should liberate your facial hair. Let it run its natural course. Don’t take away it’s power! Let it be, man. Let that hair caterpillar above your lip be fat, healthy, and happy. No one wants to see a sickly, unbecoming skinny caterpillar adoring their lips. Paula Patton deserves better than that.