10 Mustache Styles That Must Be Stopped

The moustache is a style that has sadly been relegated to antiquity: It is a quaint, often goofy relic that's looked upon with derision in the modern world, when it is looked upon at all. So of course, it's time for the insufferable hipsters to ironically bring it back. A moustache is supposed to be a courtesy; it's there to tell the world "there's something wrong with my face. Here's something else to look at, friend." But these days it's just telling the world "there's something wrong with my personality, look at me." If you're considering a moustache: Don't. It's been ruined. But real men are not dissuaded from anything, no matter how reasonable the argument, so you're probably still considering making the moustache leap -- not in spite of, but in fact because it is currently going down in flames. If that's the case, please consult this comprehensive guide to the modern moustache so you will be fully cognizant of the precise kind of dick you look like.

Thick, straightforward, matter-of-fact, the Chevron is a tapered face-wedge that spits in your fancy wine, knocks over your Tapas and makes sweet love to your wife while you cry into your Vichyssoise (missionary position only, Frenchy).

What You Think You Look Like:

A traditional symbol of sex and confidence, the Chevron-wearer is lean, serious, and absolutely incapable of putting up with bullshit. Bullshit to the Chevron-wielder is like lactose to an Asian; it simply will not be tolerated.

What It Really Looks Like:

Fat, old, and swollen with beer-cheese soup, you insist you're "telling it like it is" at social gatherings, and are "renowned" for your brevity. In reality, you're just drunk and "remanded" into police custody. Also, we know you think you're rocking those boy-shorts, but it just looks like you somehow lost most of your pants on your way to the field. Possibly to a dog.

A U-shaped track of hair, the Horseshoe says a million different things in a million different languages, and all of them are "I'll light this fucking place on fire." The horseshoe is the staple of convicts, bikers, and general badasses with poor impulse control across the globe.

What You Think You Look Like:

You look like you've done time. And not pussy time, either: You didn't get a GED or any of that crap in the joint. No, you killed a man with a folded-in-half pudding-cup lid and shower-raped the warden.

What You Really Look Like:

You just don't know how to break the news to your father, but your facial hair does. Your face is playing a game of charades with the world, and its topic is "homosexual." And in this analogy, your face is really, really good at charades.

The Pencil is the trademark of drug kingpins, slightly effeminate assassins, and tango instructors. In any case, the pencil-moustache looks like it's about to murder something, and it just might be vaginas.

What You Think You Look Like:

You know the word suavity exists, and you plan to use it in every sentence you speak for the rest of your life -- even if it's just whispering it seductively at the end of them like Sex Punctuation. There are three things you do better than anybody else: Dance, fuck, and avoid immigration. And you look damn good doing all of them, even the last one. Especially the last one. The last thing the INS sees is your shaking hips Samba-ing over the barbed wire fence of an impound lot, and though they would never admit it, they envy the fence. Sure, you look like kind of a pervert. But it's the good kind of pervert.

What You Really Look Like:

Nope. It's not.

The wild card of the facial hair world, the Combination comes in many forms: Beard and moustache, soul patch and cho chos, mutton chops and a mohawk - one style of facial hair could never hold you, man. You yearn to be free, and God help the razor that tries to tame you.

What You Think You Look Like:

Equal parts badass motherfucker, lovable hero, and zany clown. You're a big, lovable maniac, just as likely to bear hug a group of children as you are to steal their schoolbus and ramp it into a taxiing commuter plane in order to take out The Spider before he can flee to a non-extraditing country.

What You Really Look Like:

You're trying to hide as much face as possible behind your baroque hair illusions, and everybody knows why: You're not even ugly, you're just nothing special. You're a blank slate, a cipher, a non-entity. Your face is a lightly used mid-90s minivan, and yet you tinted the windows and slapped flames all over it and insist on bringing it to the track every weekend. You have a half-finished arm sleeve tattoo based on the Tarot; you will never complete it. You tell girls you're heavily into vintage woodworking, when you really mean you bought your coffee table at Goodwill.

The default moustache for the United States of America: It's not too thick, not too thin, centrally located and moderately groomed. The American Standard is a moustache, sure, but it doesn't want to make a thing out of it. The American Standard is often used as part of a required work uniform, as seen on Highway Patrolman, porn stars, and managers of failing Blockbusters.

What You Think You Look Like:

You're dimly aware that you look kind of sleazy and untrustworthy. But y'know, after a few drinks down at the Loose Moose with the boys, you feel like that kind of works in your favor. You look like you know how to do things - gross things - and some kinds of women are intrigued by that. The kind that work the graveyard shift at gas stations, mostly.

What You Really Look Like:

You look like less of a prideless sex-fiend, and more like somebody shaved most of a perverted hedgehog. You are, more than likely, somebody's step-dad. And everybody can tell at a glance that the kid still resents you, no matter how many times you insist you're not trying to take anybody's place, Randy.

Basically just an ungroomed Chevron, the Cowboy is a monster of a moustache. It hangs penduously from the face like an extra ballsack, and you know what? That's pretty much what it is. If somebody's wearing the Cowboy, it's because their body just didn't have enough room for all the huevos they're rocking, so it sprouted new ones. In hair form. From their face. Gross.

What You Think You Look Like:

A man of honor. A man of the land. A man of infinite patience. A man with a short fuse. But above all else, a man.

What You Really Look Like:

You saw real men on TV, and you wanted to look like them. This is your crude imitation of manhood; it's like a Subway mime doing the trademark John Wayne swagger for spare change. Sure, everybody recognizes what you're doing - maybe they're even a little amused by it - but at the end of the day, all of them are well aware that they could and probably will kick your ass just to pass the time until the next train arrives.

The sinister upward turn at the tips, the sharp, pointed goatee: The Devil is the very emblem of evil. The Devil tells people you're not here looking for trouble, Trouble is here looking for you... because you fucked Trouble's wife, killed its dog and burned down its house this afternoon.

What You Think You Look Like:

Your particular brand of evil comes not from senseless destruction, but cold, calculated brilliance. You don't kill men: You let the men kill each other. You're powerful, you're a deal-maker, a businessman, and a spectacular bastard (but hey, at least you're spectacular).

What You Really Look Like:

Yes, the Devil's unique moustache/goatee combo does bespeak a certain smug confidence, and there is something inherently attractive about that - but that's assuming you have something to back it up with. Unless you're a certified evil mastermind or a supernatural entity with all the forces of hell at your beck and call, you just look like the kind of guy who leaves grammar-correcting comments on indie rock websites.

Not adhering to any one specific form, the scraggly moustache is, by its very nature, unplanned and unpredictable. Maybe you were too busy to shave, maybe you just started growing it in, or maybe you were trying to steal another man's moustache but were caught midway through and forced to flee. Nobody knows why your facial hair is incomplete, and you love it that way.

What You Think You Look Like:

Oh, do I have a moustache? I'm sorry, I hadn't even noticed. It probably cropped up over lunch. I was too busy doing forbidden things to intriguing people to catch exactly when this hair attached itself to me. Ah, well - such is the mystery of the moustache, my dear. I've noticed there are panties on the floor. Is it laundry day, or are you just happy to see me?

What You Really Look Like:

The only reason you're not raping somebody right now is that you don't possess the upper body strength and your credit is too poor to lease a van. You talk down to your sex doll. It's name is Billy.

Now isn't that cute? It's a Finger Moustache! Somebody pulls out a camera, everybody poses nicely, and then uh oh! Finger moustache. Aren't you just a rogue?

What You Think You Look Like:

Hip, casual, and cool, you're the kind of person others use the word 'irreverent' to describe. You know, looking at it all written out like that, that description makes you sound kind of stupid, but look at you - you're okay with that! You're secure enough to be self-deprecating; it's one of your many, many virtues.

What You Really Look Like:

Dignified, sophisticated, refined, and above all else, ominous. The mere presence of The Handlebar automatically makes you a card-carrying member of the league of evil.

What You Think You Look Like:

You're fully capable of discussing philosophy, executing a high-stakes corporate take-over, and rigging dynamite to an oversize plunger, all at the same time. You're as intelligent and genteel as you are brutal and unforgiving. You're not wanted by the police, but only because you own the police.

What You Really Look Like

No, you are absolutely wanted by the police. And not because you're sinister, but because you are dangerously out of touch with the world around you. The centuries-old style you're wearing does not indicate you are sophisticated and refined, but rather that it's highly possible you do not know what year it is, and often find it difficult to distinguish fiction from reality. You probably have very little contact with others, who might casually mention what decade it is, or casually remind you of this country's public indecency laws. You most likely have some internet-centric job, working from home.

It's probably because of the ankle bracelet.

It's almost certainly because of the opiates and the cock-fighting.