Writetober 2025: Mustache (Based on inktober 2025 prompts)

 A mustache is a delicate flow of hairy melody that bleeds from the skin like thorns of a rose. It's the symbol of pride and the mark of nobility.

Oh how I would wish to wear one, just like the noble oil conglomerates. For even if I don't have their wealth or political power, at least I could get a mustache like them. Then I could be on their level, then I could know their power. The power that they hold over men and women like me.
Yet unlike them, I do not share a wallet that fat, and I do not have a life long enough to work up to that. But why run the mile when the taxi is faster?

I had talked to a lady in a strange wooden cottage at the edge of town. I told her my plea, and she gave me an answer. She turned her back on me, and with a swift motion of her hands, she threw some herbs, fruits, meats, and hair in a grand cauldron before pouring me a flask of some murky bubbling gray liquid.
It both smelled and looked like sewage, yet she told me that it was to be the aid to my misery of my poverty.

So, I handed her the last of my cash and headed off in a hurry. I drank the bottle whole and stared into my bathroom mirror intensely. I stared at the void between my upper lip and nose like a hawk glaring at a fear-stricken mouse. I may have sat for hours, yet it wasn't in vain. I soon saw the hair prickle out, and within the minute, I had my very own twirly mustache. I jumped and danced and sang and cried.

"Mustache! Mustache! now I finally have a mustache! No need for money nor need for gold! I can scam these prickly fools with simply the grandeur of my mustache!" I sang.

"I'll cheat my way out of poverty and dance the balls without a drop of sweat spent!"

yet in my delirium, I missed to see how my mustache had grown and was now half the size of me!

"What trickery is this!" I scoffed at my mirror before grabbing my scissors and cutting the length.

Yet it didn't do anything against the hair. They simply flattened along the blade, and the mustache kept on growing and growing and growing.

s is a mistake!" I began to cry.

The prickly hairs began to fill my room.

"Out! I need out!"

Yet each move I made felt like swinging through a rose bush. The stiff hairs cut at me like razors. My mustache it grew, and soon it covered all that I was. My house and me are now buried in my greed. I feel the wait crush against me and the last echos of light vanish. I'm buried in hair and struggling to for air, soon I fear my mustache will grow inwards. I fear the hairs will curl through my mouse and nose and ears and fill me with what was supposed to be my easy way out.