Now you know my middle names are Wrong and Right

He lived with the moustache for a week. From Monday to Monday. "What'd you join the RCMP or something?" they asked him downtown. "Did you, didn't you have a beard?" they asked him around home.
He would forget he wore a ridiculous moustache during the course of his daily tasks only to be reminded by the cocked eyebrows of passers-by.
He'd gained about 30 pounds since the last time he'd been a regular shaver. Mostly in his neck. His beard started going white at age 17. He grew his first sideburns at 13. All his life, he'd used his facial hair to look older. Now he was older. He was old. There was no getting around the passage of time. Now he could use his facial hair to look younger. By getting rid of it.
"What are you, 35 or something?" he asked his freshly scraped face in the mirror, examining the white hairs on his temples, in his eyebrows, up his nose.