The French Moustache
I grew up in the east end of Ottawa, where most of the French families lived. I played hockey for six or eight years and with the demographics being what they were, the French and the English were about half and half. We all got along, were on the same lines, protected the same goalies and shared our tapes. But there was a distinction.
By the time we were in Peewee or Bantam, the French boys started showing up with moustaches. French moustaches, we used to say. Fair, blonde, never been shaven, unable to contain soup. It was goofy but it was always the French boys who had them.
A decade later, they may have been beautiful, if moustaches are your thing. But as a thirteen year old, those moustaches were in equal parts goofy and sweet.
The French Moustache. My friends know what I am talking about.