Kurt Vonnegut
9.11.22—4.11.07
It’s obviously a little overdue, but the mustache community owes Kurt Vonnegut plenty, and I’m here to thank him.
I’m avoiding anything of the standard tongue-in-cheek stuff, as the death of an old writer is in no way funny, and the vicious death of 30-plus random innocents from a completely detached and inhuman lunatic is a gut-turning expression of the unadulterated evil that, chillingly, really does exist in this world. Not much is funny today. Not even mustaches.
So it goes.
Well, obviously some mustaches are funny, but certainly not Vonnegut’s. His, the classic writer’s mustache. Gray, at least towards the end, and long before his hair was. Semi-chunky, necessarily unkempt, but in a respectable manner. In that way, it was kind of like his writing style: nothing flashy or immediately eye-popping, seemingly passable as simply “everyday”, until you look into it a bit and realize it’s completely different from anything you’ve ever seen (or read, if I’m sticking with this sorry undeveloped metaphor). Substance trumping form. It might look like others you’ve seen, but it’s not. It’s got body and endurance and a charm all its own. I'm pretty sure I'm talking about the mustache right now. One thing's for sure: If he’s Kilgore Trout, that thing’s a lunker.
He stayed with it for years and years, never altering it—no, “I think I'm going for the Hitler this month, honey”—because it was good. It fit him. As anything but a preening academic type, he seemed to have the feel of the uncle with the spark in his eyes that pulls nickels from behind your ear. The ‘stache really completed that perfect, kind image, all bushy and benign. It’s a shame he’s not still trimming it. So it goes.