Mustache Repair

On a side street in London, wedged between two Indian restaurants which were coincidentally owned by a pair of former lovers was a curious little shop. 

The building was made of all sorts of different types of wooden planks, which had been slatted together. Now you didn’t hear this from me, but the shop looked like it was made by an 8th grader. Actually, let me rephrase that, a rather stupid 8th grader. Actually, it looked like somebody had gone to one of those uncontacted cannibal island tribes in the Congo, snatched their stupidest little cannibal child, and given them power tools and materials to build a shop.

However, this story isn’t about the shop or the rather ridiculous way it was crafted, but it is what lay inside that comprises the significance. 

Inside was Fendel Bigsby, and around him was his mustache repair shop. 

Fendel was an absolute pro; any kind of mustache, any kind of face, any kind of problem, and he could fix it. Say the hair was thinning, or going gray, or a bad batch of mustache lice got in after an even worse date, Fendel could fix it. 

The only problem was that nobody’s mustaches ever needed fixing. 

For the past 8 months, not a single customer had graced Fendel’s shop, and the only customer who had come in the last 2 years had come in by mistake! And they hadn’t even had a moustache. At first Fendel paid it no mind, but as the days came and went, and the entrance doorbell grew rusted, Fendel began to worry about his career choices. 

He had invested his entire fortune, nay, his entire life, nay his entire being into mustache repair. It was to the point where Fendel could nary do anything else but think of repairing mustaches. In fact, he was so worried about missing a customer that he refused to leave his store whatsoever.

So, Fendel was in a bit of a tough situation. 

Eventually, Fendel said to his empty store, “Enough is enough, I’m going to go out there, and I’m going to fix somebody’s mustache so help me God!” 

Fendel ventured out of his store, weathered the storm of insults drifting from the Indian ex-lovers above him and marched into what he assumed was the city square. 

What he saw shocked him to his very core; nobody had a mustache. 

More than that, everyone was completely clean shaven, and what’s more, they were all wearing their hair out and walking around in skirts and dresses. 

Fendel ran up to the nearest group and cried out to them, “What’s happened to you men, where has your dignity gone?” They just looked at him and turned away. 

So went Fendel’s entire day; accosting people on the street and being turned away, or, if he was particularly strident, they would spray him in the eyes with the most dreadful pepper concoction. 

All in all, he was not having very much success in garnering clientele. 

Eventually, it appears Fendel caused enough ruckus for the police to be called, and he finally saw what he was looking for; from the police car, out swaggered a big, juicy mustache. 

Fendel fell to his knees in euphoric glee, shouting to the heavens, “Thank you God, I thought this land forsaken of all facial adornments!” 

The policeman hauled Fendel to his feet and began dragging him to his patrol car, pushing away Fendel’s probing hands from his mustache. 

“I was afraid there wasn’t any of us left,” Fendel said, knees scraping against the concrete. 

The policeman looked down at him confused, briefly stopping, “us what?” he asked. 

“Mustaches havers of course!” Fendel responded while snapping his fingers and bopping his hips, caught up in his own frivolity. 

“Why do you think nobody else has a mustache?” the policeman says over his shoulder, resuming his efforts to drag Fendel towards the patrol car. 

Fendel feared the only other man left with a moustache was a fool.

“Well look around!” Fendel suddenly snaps, gesticulating angrily at the crowd around them, “There is naught but skin over these peoples’ lips.”

“Well, that’s probably because we’re at St. Margaret’s Women’s college.” The policeman states, throwing Fendel into the back of the cruiser. 

Fendel reeled with the news, his whole life he had thought that people had stopped caring about mustaches when in reality he had built his shop in a women’s college. It was almost too much for him to comprehend. 

He met the policeman’s eyes in the mirror, pity and disgust reflecting back at him. The engine started, and the car lurched away from the college. Fendel’s eyes dropped to the policeman’s mustache, as he ruminated on the grand potential hidden in the uncertainty of the future. 

“You have mustache crabs by the way”