While serving in the U.S. Army, I tried some different things. Nothing too crazy or exotic, but I did start chewing tobacco, went to my first bar, (didn’t have my first drink, though,) and grew my first mustache.
To this day, I can’t grow a proper beard. I just don’t grow sideburns. I’ve been shaving for forty years and still have an Indian beard. (Apache here; Apache there. Tee-hee!) I did find, proudly, that I can grow a serious mustache, though. I have a large enough upper lip and found that the hair fills out very well there. Actually, it grew out a little too well back then.
The military does allow a certain amount of facial hair, but definitely within their standards. Regulations vary from branch to branch, but the lip hair part is pretty consistent. A mustache must be tapered and should not extend past the ends of the lips or over the upper lip. Well, mine was, shall I say, a little more bushy than that. It was certainly not tapered and definitely hung past and over my lip.
I thought that it might be cool to have one of those big, western style, cowboy mustaches. You know, like the one Sam Elliot has. I knew I couldn’t get away with that, but I still let it grow long enough to be pushing my luck.
I had, with a little help from my friend, Spec 4 Gary T. Cutshall, been transferred from Commo to supply. I didn’t get along very well with my section chief and was thrilled to put some distance between us. (Sadly, he was from Knoxville, as I recall.) I was assigned as assistant battery driver which meant, in actuality, I worked directly for the top sergeant.
One day, about a month into my growth, my old section chief made a snide remark to me about my mustache. I returned a snide remark, (yeah, I was an idiot,) about how I worked for the man with the diamond on his collar and if he didn’t mind, then it was okay.
That was in the morning. At noon muster, the first sergeant announced that, at the end of the day’s business, he wanted to see PFC Davis. He didn’t say why. This definitely intrigued me and not in a good way.
The day progressed and my paranoia increased. As I was also supply gofer, (long story,) I inquired of the supply chief, Sgt. Thompson, if he thought Top could maybe have a problem with my whiskers. He answered blandly that he couldn’t be sure, but it was a definite possibility. I remarked that I was going to take care of that little problem.
I made a quick bee-line back to my barracks, secured my shaving gear, scurried to the latrine and, not only trimmed, but completely removed my fuzzy little friend. Then I returned to supply, wearing nothing more on my face than a silly smile.
That evening, after announcements and other business, Top didn’t mention me or anything about me. Not wanting to increase my woes, I asked Sgt. Thompson what the deal was and he suggested we find out. So, we went to inquire.
When chief asked the Top Sergeant if he wasn’t wanting to see PFC Davis, Top looked me straight in the face and said, “That’s not the soldier I wanted to see. The one I wanted to see had a ****-ing mustache down over his lip!” He pointed to his own mouth only slightly exaggerating the length of my missing facial hair.
Sgt. Thompson looked at me and I looked at him. We both smiled knowing that I had dodged a really big bullet.
Lesson learned!
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