A Particularly Shit Moustache - Part IV

An amazing thing happened on my break from work yesterday.

            I was sitting outside in the sun, reading and watching Chapel St’s finest assortment of riff raff potter by, when the perfect series of almost improbable coincidences led to The Seeing.

            Firstly, it was 3.44pm. This fact, which would usually be utterly trivial, meant the sun was sitting at a nice angle in the sky—not directly above or parallel to me; rather, sort of at the angle of my hairline. Secondly, I was positioned so that the sun slanted across my face in what could be called a rakish manner.  It didn’t shine directly at me, face-on, which would have only caused an excess of light and thus blinding to the coming miracle. Thirdly, at this very moment in time I had just had a sip of beer, followed immediately by my eyes beginning their descent downwards to view my book.

            Then it happened.

            I saw my Particularly Shit Moustache. On my face.

It was The Seeing people had been telling me about, where you can look down your nose and see your own facial hair. I had not yet been privy to this experience, forlornly relegating any vision of my Particularly Shit Moustache to the mirror.

            Yet, the perfect angle of the sun, the shimmery residual moistness amidst the bristles, the path downwards taken by my eyes and 9 days of careful cultivation came together in a moment of beautiful exposure and unveiled my Particularly Shit Moustache to me first-hand: blonde and bathed in light, like a halo for my mouth.

            Hola señor! It said.

            I don’t know when my Particularly Shit Moustache decided it was Argentinian.