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Carlos versus Cancer

№105 ~2 minutes

In which I finish growing a mildly trustworty moustache to raise awareness for men’s health issues, such as prostate cancer, testicular cancer and men’s suicide.

Obviously I don’t have cancer. No. Today just marks the end of November and the end of growing a moustache to raise awareness for prostate and testicular cancer.

Finally, the 30th of November arrives and I can shave away my moustache. Did I succesfully raise some awareness for prostate and testicular cancer? I hope so. Did I raise any money? No, but then again I didn’t try to raise any money either.

So what did I learn about life, death and myself during these life-altering 30 days. Well… for one thing, I actually can grow a moustache, which I — to be perfectly honest — wasn’t quite sure would be feasible. I mean sure I can grow some form of facial hair but I sort of figured that it would be more of an uneven mess.

A close up of my mildy trusthworty moustace.
Mildy trustworthy ey?

Turns out that it’s not as much of a mess as I thought. After about 30 days I start sporting the handsomest Reynolds — named after its creator Burt — you have ever seen. It magically glorious. Woman want to be with me and men want to be the woman who want to be with me. Also small unicorns frolic in me and my ‘stache’s presence. Or… maybe I looked like “Your Dad, circa 1973”.

At least me and my sad moustache scored a “Mildly Trustworthy” on the “The Trustworthiness of Beards” -scale.

A chart called The Trustworthiness of Beards.
The Trustworthiness of Beards.

Someone who did very good on the hand was my boss and their team. Yeah, apparently he was also participating in Movember — something I didn’t find out until way later — and together, their team managed to raise £35,603 at the time of counting. They’re the team to collect the second most money in the entirety of the UK. A round of applause people because that’s pretty fuckin’ awesome.

I’m happy November is over though because I’ve already started thinking about baking some motherfuckin’ santakillin’ gingerbread cookies.

Not a Shower, nor a Grower

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