I am not a cowboy.  I am not a farmer or a ranch hand or anyone that should have a handlebar mustache plastered above my upper lip.  I shave and I shave and I shave and the thing always grows back, sometimes even overnight.  I am not kidding.  I’m thinking of getting Chicago facial hair removal or some type of plastic surgery to kill those hair follicles dead.  Women don’t find it sexy and my male friends don’t admire for me nor do they see me as a Tom Selleck-like father-slash- older brother figure.  I’m not even that old.  I’m just tired of looking like all I need is to throw on a cowboy hat and I’d have a job at the Wild West theme park out in the suburbs, whirling my lasso and hogtying wild horses.  I don’t even know why I grow this thing all the time.  No one else in my family even has a trace of facial hair.  And not one of my ancestors was a cowboy unless you think there were Italian cowboys riding along the Mediterranean Seashore.  I’m not really sure what any of that has to do with growing a mustache, but I’m quite irrational because of this thing and that’s what keeps running through my head all the time.