Sam Elliot Would Be Proud!

When I was a kid, I thought growing a mustache would be cool. I started shaving a little late though, and carried a peach fuzz mustache much later than I should've. I only actually started shaving, and that only my upper lip, because a mean kid at school poked fun at me. I only waited so long because I was afraid someone would figure out I had started shaving. Yeah, I know. 　
So, when I was at Ft. Campbell, I decided it was time to grow a mustache. As it turned out, I could!
　
Now, the Army allows mustaches. I'm sure you've seen lots of soldiers wearing them. But there are very particular regulations concerning their shape and size. They must be tapered and not extend beyond the edges of your mouth.
　
My mustache was regulation for a while, but I got lazy, cocky and stupid and let it start getting bushy. No, it was not regulation. This went on for long enough to get me into some trouble.
　
I just happened to be at the motor pool one day when I bumped into my old section chief from commo. Though he was from Knoxville, we never could seem to get along. (I blame myself.) He made a remark about me needing to trim that mustache back and I retorted that as long as the "man with the diamond on his collar didn't mind," he shouldn't worry about it. (Or words to that effect.) Technically, my many jobs at that time, driver, driver, driver, made the Top Sergeant my boss. I guess I thought I was ten foot tall and bullet proof. Mostly, I was just a jack ass!
　
Later that day, at the after dinner muster formation, among the many announcements Top made was that he wanted to see Private Davis at the end of the day. This caught my attention. (This might've actually been the morning muster the day after my little difference of opinion with the Knoxville sergeant.)
　
I followed my crew to the supply section wondering exactly what it was Top wanted from me. I even asked Sgt. Thompson, my crazy Puerto Rican section chief, if he thought it might be my mustache. He replied that that was certainly a possibility. I informed him that I thought I should go to the barracks and deal with my little issue. He seemed to agree.
　
I got to my room, collected my shaving gear, made a bee-line for the latrine, took one look in the mirror and decided there was only one way to deal with this problem: remove it!
　
I returned to the supply section, completed whatever tasks Sgt. Thompson or whomever else had for me and reported to final muster formation with the rest of my crew. I was still about terrified, but hoped my extreme acquiescence at least would lessen the punishment for my as yet to be revealed crimes. (When the Top Sergeant says he wants to see you at the end of the work day, especially with that look and that voice, you know its not to give you a medal for service.)
　
Well, Top did his thing, called for reports, made his announcements and dismissed the battery with nary a word about me. I was perplexed and probably even more fearful. What was going on now?

I turned to my sergeant, who looked as confused as me. I asked him if we shouldn't talk to Top. He agreed we should. We then went after Top with me following close on his heels.
　
We called out to him as he was walking back to HQ. He turned back to us and Sgt. Thompson asked if he didn't want to see Private Davis. He looked directly at me and replied, pointing to his lip and said, "No! The soldier I wanted to see had a @#$%-ing mustache down to here!" He then spun on his heels and again headed for HQ.
　
I was stupefied and stood for a minute trying to figure out what just happened. I finally looked at my chief, who looked back at me. I won't say we smiled, but we both had a similar look of relief on our faces.
　
I definitely dodged a bullet in that little escapade. Yes, I was stupid enough to challenge an NCO, but I was smart enough to not challenge THE NCO! Oh, also, I never grew another mustache for the rest of my time in the Army.