Editor's note: Mustaches are de rigueur on uncles, cops and closing pitchers, but they've also become a fixture on the upper lips of the young and the hip. In fact, it's hard to imagine a time since the Civil War when razors were so ignored. But the look can be polarizing, and Westword contributors Samantha Alviani and Bree Davies each represent the opposite ends of that spectrum. See Davies's take in "Mustaches: They're gross, they scratch my face, and the Civil War is over"; here's Alviani's:
My love and appreciation of the mustache began at a young age, when I came across a picture of my dad taken in the early '70s. The photo was probably shot somewhere in New England, and Dad was leaning casually against the post of a wooden fence, decked out in bell-bottoms and a classic -- yet slightly unkempt -- handlebar mustache. A different incarnation of that mustache would show up a decade later when he was working in politics; groomed and polished, it had an air of seriousness, but was no less exuberant.
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