Tom Selleck, aka Magnum P.I. and the Holy Grail of moustaches. Apparently, there's a car in this photo.
There was a time when we thought the moustache had quietly disappeared.
It had slipped off the upper lip and into the archives, somewhere between cassette tapes, VCR rewinding, and men using Lynx Africa as an aphrodisiac.
A small group of concerned conservationists even looked into the viability of finding a breeding pair of moustached New Zealanders and relocating them to a remote island in the south to preserve the species.
But like vinyl records, stubbies, and Winston Peters, it has made a comeback.
Yup, for better or worse, the mo is back.
You see it everywhere now. On baristas. On builders. On blokes who look like they have just stepped out of a craft beer commercial. And, of course, on teenage boys running what appears to be a mascara-enhanced lip operation.
The lip slug is having a resurgence.
So it is important to understand the history of the mo in New Zealand.
Let’s start with the classic, the Ministry of Transport moustache.
Now that was a moustache.
There was a time when the most powerful upper lip operations in the country were proudly attached to men who leaned into your car window and asked if you knew why they had pulled you over.
The Ministry of Transport mo was not styled. It was not ironic. It did not require wax.
It simply existed as a reminder that the officer behind it was the boss, and you were not.
You did not argue with a Ministry of Transport moustache.
You apologised to it, even if you were not entirely sure what for.
“Yes, officer.”
New Zealand also has a proud sporting moustache tradition.
Some will say talent, training and teamwork took the 1982 All Whites to the World Cup.
I say it was the moustaches.
Take Steve Sumner as an example.
A powerful mo, a pair of short shorts, and suddenly we are marching off to Spain to score goals, goals, goals, and we will score some more again. You know the tune.
Then there is the great cricketing facial hair of the 1980s.
Sir Richard Hadlee and Ewen Chatfield running in with moustaches.
A sight that had many 11-year-old cricketers reaching for a crayon in an attempt to add some mo power to their upper lips and outswingers.
And while I hate to mention it, you have to ask, if, like Samson, Sir Richard and Chats had trimmed those glorious mos, might they have just been two tidy medium pacers with respectable figures?
Instead, the mo gave them swing. The mo gave them menace. And the mo gave Sir Richard 431 test wickets.
And let us not forget the All Blacks.
Andy Haden did not just leap in the lineout. His moustache parted the Welsh lineout like Moses and the Red Sea. Penalty won. Game won.
Because when it comes to sporting greatness, the only thing capable of stopping a mighty mo is a Schick shaver. The kryptonite of the moustache.
We cannot measure the sporting power of a mo in statistics. It will not show up in the record books. But deep down, we all know the truth.
And this takes us to the patron saint of moustaches.
The “Tom Selleck moustache”.
This is what puberty was about. The end goal. The summit.
With the right mo, anyone, even a boy born in Hamilton, could one day be racing around Hawaii in a Ferrari, solving crimes before smoko.
That was the dream. Magnum P.I. was not just a television show. It was a recruitment campaign for upper lip ambition.
The Magnum moustache was the final piece in the holy trinity of bedroom wall posters for an 11-year-old Kiwi lad. Sir Richard. Steve Sumner. Tom Selleck.
But now the moustache is even more powerful than Sir Richard, Steve and Tom combined.
Because now it sits at the heart of Movember. That month that is quietly feared by girlfriends and openly discussed by HR departments as to whether it is smart casual or just an eye insult.
What began as a slightly cheeky challenge has grown into something genuinely important.
Men growing moustaches to raise awareness for mental health and prostate cancer.
Conversations started because someone decided to look slightly ridiculous for a month.
Movember gave the moustache real purpose.
It was no longer just a fashion decision or a throwback to 1987. It became a badge.
A way of saying “Men’s health matters” without having to stand up and deliver an awkward ummm arrrr speech.
And for many years, the moustache would emerge in November, proud and patchy, before quietly hibernating again for the rest of the year. But it has started to become a year-round fashion accessory.
Though like mullets, not all moustaches are created equal.
There is the classic full mo. Solid. Symmetrical. Suggesting you own at least one flannel shirt and possibly a smoker. And yes, it celebrates the fact that you can grow such a powerful slug.
There is the handlebar, a bold commitment. A man who chooses a handlebar moustache is not easing into anything. And he must accept that at some point, someone will yell “Chopper” at him.
There is the minimalist pencil moustache, which feels like it requires a jazz playlist and works perfectly on Cuba St in Wellington.
And then there is the hopeful mo.
The one that exists mostly in ambition. Patchy but proud. Clinging on with the optimism of a rural rugby club chasing a bonus point.
So, whether you are channelling Tom Selleck, honouring the Ministry of Transport legacy, quietly participating in Movember, or still convincing yourself that teenage bum fluff is a mo, let us acknowledge this.
The mo is back.