To some people, though mostly women, Movember is the worst thing to happen to a month ever. It's common knowledge that moustaches are part of that long list of things that never should have seen the light of day past 1989.
For others, the campaign with men growing moustaches from Nov. 1 to Dec. 1 means helping men everywhere with prostate cancer, while increasing awareness of other men's health issues. It's true that moustaches are unpleasant for all but a select few masculine individuals, even though my Lanny McDonald imitation was less Yosemite Sam and more Bavarian beer wench, it's the effort that counts.
Since these numbers are being tossed around so much lately, I am among the 99 per cent who can't grow an acceptable moustache.
Prostate cancer has recently become a rite of passage in my family. My dad's father and all his uncles have been diagnosed with the same ailment and then given clean bills of health. My dad was diagnosed last year. We're now waiting for his brothers to be found with the same problem any day now, with me and my brothers following in step in about 30 years. It seems like an inevitability at this point, as though we're all just living with dormant prostate cancer, waiting for it metastasize when we we've properly ripened.
It's certainly not something that bogs me down, especially considering the win ratio my family has in this game. It does make me think about those who haven't been as fortunate with the disease however, and feel that I have some obligation to spread the Baker luck. We aren't quite so lucky in pretty much everything else, so I hope I don't pass on any of our lesser qualities. I certainly don't wish to pass on my embarrassing mo-growing skills.
With the growing prevalence of prostate cancer, not just in my family but elsewhere, it seemed necessary to do something. I could donate myself, but growing a terrible moustache was a much more satisfying option, encouraging those who liked, or more accurately laughed at, my child-like, lip sweater to give money in support of research and awareness of early diagnosis.
I've been asked if I am going to keep these whiskers and I was even bribed by my sister who said she would donate another $20 if I kept what she called my "caterpillar" until she saw me again at Christmas.
Well, no dice! If you are reading this now, the creepy crawly is gone from beneath my nose. I won't miss it, but it was worth it, even if it just brightened the days of friends or family who were brought to tears at the sight of it. At least they donated a dollar for every tear that was shed.
