Moustache - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
No-one had seen David without his moustache since he was eighteen. He'd grown it just to prove he could and then he'd noticed he got served faster in bars. Every birthday he would change it to a new shape, which was now made all the easier by google. He'd had pencils, wild man bushes, curled moustaches achieved with gel and more goatees than he could recount. So when on his fiftieth he arrived quite naked under his lower lip it had much the same effect as Clarke Kent removing his glasses. His own daughter walked right past him and not one of his party gave him a second glance until he sat at the head of the table. The conversation died faster than August grass. Then his wife leant over and gave him a kiss, then another, she was about to go for a third when the kids started mock jeers and throwing flowers. The ice was broken and the compliments came in thick and fast.
Raj had been looking forward to his first Movember since middle school. There were just so many moustaches he wanted to try out. His first one was reminiscent of a story-book magician and he raised over a hundred dollars. His second was thick above his top lip with two straight lines down an otherwise smooth chin, with that one he raised over two hundred. But the best one of all was the trucker 'tash that drooped like a great black slug right off his face, but for that one he'd had to start a full month early and tolerate the "weirdo" double-takes.
When the major walked in his moustache crossed the threshold before he did. It was many shades, all of them grey, and as wild as an over-worn bristle brush. After several marching steps he came to his halt as stiffly as only a soldier can, and began to address the gathered council. The dense hair wiggled as he spoke, but never once did we get a view of his lips or mouth. When he finished I panicked a little, I hadn't heard a word of it. The entire time I had been lost in a hypnotic daydream, wondering how he managed to eat or if he could ever kiss his wife. Then it was my turn to give analysis. Every head turned toward me in scary synchrony.
When I was a young child I would describe his moustache as like a great hairy caterpillar, it tickled me with every whiskery kiss.
His moustache was like a Roald Dahl character, it was thick and bushy with bits of scrambled egg stuck in it.
His moustache was as thin as a pencil, meanly proportioned like the rest of him.
His moustache was quite incredulous and perhaps gave away his flair for the unconventional, it was long and thin curling up at each end like a storybook magician.
His moustache was thin and neatly trimmed, almost like it had been stencilled there.