mustachioed

He had shoulder-length hair, and a fantastic mustache. I mean a mustache that looked like this:

He sat down and my chair, and said “cut it all off! I need a businessman’s haircut. I need a new job. I’m tired of working 80-90 hours a week. I have no time for my family, and I hate my job. I need a new one.”

So I gave it to him. When it came time to trim his facial hair, I stopped. Are you sure? “No,” he said. Leave the mustache. I can’t change who I am.”