Original Story by The Telegraph
Written by Jonathan Wells
December 17, 2015
Want to be taken seriously? Grow a moustache!
Does your doctor have a moustache? And, if so, does it make you trust him (or her) more than you otherwise would?
This week, the British Medical Journal has revealed that, amongst the top practitioners of medicine, there are more men with moustaches than there are women in total.
The study, for which a team of American researchers inspected photographs of the 1,000 most highly-ranked doctors in the United States, discovered that whilst 19 per cent of top US doctors are moustachioed men, only 13 pc are women.
“We defined a moustache as the visible presence of hair on the cutaneous lip,” the researchers writes in the BMJ. “And included styles such as the copstash standard, pencil, handlebar, Dali and Supermario moustache.”
“Facial hair,” they add, “has been shown to enhance perceptions of maturity, responsibility, dominance, strength and self-confidence.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Last month, I took part in the charity no-shave-athon commonly known as Movember. And whilst there were moments when my facial fur caused me distress – I found the constant itchiness and post-lunch food checks tiresome – I now find myself missing its look and feel.
At 21, I haven’t yet reached an age where I can dress like a distinguished gent. Tweed would look sarcastic, a pipe is out of the question and formal hats make me look like I’ve just raided the dressing-up box. But the moustache, a purely natural addition, is somehow exempt from these restrictions.
Whether it’s due to the newfound ubiquity of beards, or the charitable intentions of Movember, I happily found that my moustache gave me a certain gravitas in the eyes of others.
Taxi drivers would ask me if I was over thirty, whether or not I was married, and how many years I had worked at The Telegraph. Patrolling policemen would nod at me as I walked past them. Elderly gentlemen seemed to recognise my existence for the first time – as if my facial hair was a reassurance to them, a visual guarantee that I wouldn’t steal their shopping or hurl random abuse at them from street corners.
A sign of maturity, the humble moustache is your ticket into an exclusive club of mutual respect, unspoken appreciation and sly winks of acknowledgement. It is a rite of passage, an important transition. Sporting a ‘tache for a month made me feel more of an adult than graduating from university.
To my surprise, I found my confidence growing as quick as the hair on my top lip during Movember. And whilst, as far as I was aware, this increase in morale could have been some sort of hormonally-charged chemical reaction to rapid hair growth, I did not care one ‘tache hair. I felt suited and booted and ready to take on the world.
Why do moustaches cultivate this air of authority, of power and dependability? Surely it’s in the act of growing the hair itself: a well-groomed and full moustache is an indicator of a patient and responsible man. These facial appendages don’t grow overnight; they takes time and perseverance to bloom. Then, once they’re sat just beneath your nose, moustaches take due care and attention and care, much like maintaining the health of a small domesticated animal (albeit one which lives on your face).
Perhaps that’s why doctors with moustaches go so far in their careers: subconsciously, they put us at ease, reassure us that we’re in good, moustache-keeping hands. After all, if a man can negotiate the difficulties of waxing and combing a moustache every morning, no doubt he can be depended upon to complete even the most delicate of medical procedures without a hitch.
So, if you want to be seen as commanding and mature, simply grow your lip hair long. Then, should anyone question your authority, you can simply reply: “Trust me. I have a moustache.”
Beard Beacon 