The Hairy Tash: A MANIFESTO

Excerpt from a speech given on the first day of the Month of Eating, Y12, at the annual Mustache Convention, Neopia Central. Vocalized by a particularly stout, pompous Hairy Tash, and written down for posterity by a particularly inky one. May your facial hair growth always be lush and silky, and the curse of unsightly split ends to your enemies. All hail the power of the ‘stache!

To my brothers in arms; to every moustache and whiskery ornament, whether released or unreleased; to the facial hair of every Neopet on whom said facial hair has decided to bestow its blessing; to all of you, each and every Hairy Tash in Neopia!

THIS IS OUR MANIFESTO.

They knew not what was coming, that fateful day in the Month of Celebrating, Y2, that momentous fourteenth day of December, when they collected their Advent Calendar prizes. They could not know that in the simple Christmas Crackers that they received, we lay hidden like diamonds in the rough, waiting to be released, waiting to shine in our black and hirsute glory. They knew not that with the snap of every cracking Cracker, they were punctuating the ascent of a new age of Hairy Tash ascendancy.

They could not know, when they giggled as they read our item description, that we would soon become endemic to Neopia -- nay, the ENDPOINT of all existence! That their very being would soon become teleologically-orientated towards us, the Flocculent Few.

“A fake plastic moustache is a perfect addition for an undercover Neopet,” they read, little knowing that soon -- SOON -- every Neopet in Neopia would be going “undercover” by virtue of our clinging powers on their unknowing upper lips! And now look at them, moustachioed by the best of us -- our progress, our prowess, documented in the very bedrock of Neopian publications: the Neopian Times itself!

“Fake plastic”? This is no fake plastic, my brothers, this is no synthetic polymer! This is new-pressed fresh-cast biodegradable Faerie-grade asbestos-free ebony resin, moulded to perfection by six generations of artisans and barbers in a factory beneath Neopia Central’s very catacombs!

The moustache is a WAY OF LIFE! It is the path to Truth! To Eternity! To Glory, till the world ends!

To uninhibited use of Random Capitalization for Emphasis!

We are the Hairy Tash. Our category is “toy.” Our rarity is 102. Our approximate price is 4,000 NP.

And our legend will carry on to the other side of infinity.

We are the future. We are malleable, we are varied; we can cater to the moustachy needs of every single pet on this, our planet. We cover the gamut from the rough and ready handlebar to the haughty imperial to the bristly mid-lip toothbrush to the delicate and wavering pencil moustache (oui oui, merci).

But our skills extend beyond the mere adornment of the populace’s expectant upper lips. Because, rotated and placed above the eye-line, we also make excellent unibrows. In that function we lend ferocity to any stare; intensity to even the most shifty-eyed gaze.

There are those who would scorn us. There are those who would question our necessity; there are those who suggest that no-one could possibly be taken in by a disguise as simple as the Tashes of Hair. To them we say: who could camouflage your characteristic upper lip with such flair? Who could alter the tell-tale lines of your face with such stubbly panache? Who could camouflage your weak chin, make robust your uncertain smile, and whiten your teeth, if only by contrast? Who could make you look this scary when you jump out at innocent passersby from behind dumpsters in dark alleys?

There are those who would point out that Hairy Tashes tend to catch bits of food in an unhygienic fashion. There are those who would object to cookie crumbs and milk drops and other remnants of times of happy snacking being caught in our bristles.

To them we say: it’s called saving it for later, you uncultured Snorkle.

There are those who would question our ability to remain in place for long periods of time. To them we say: a lopsided Hairy Tash is a paradox, an oxymoron. And a fallen Hairy Tash? Simply unheard of -- a physical impossibility. A Hairy Tash is a friend for life. In fact, once you put one on, you will never get it off. We are true until the last whisker, faithful to the end of the end of the tiniest follicle. (Unless you move too fast, or talk too much, or eat, or drink, or breathe, or ingest industrial-grade corrosive acid, or shave us off, but those are minor contingencies and not at issue here.)

So prepare yourself.

We are everywhere.

We are everyTHING.

We will find you in your Neohome as you brush your teeth -- and we will appear below your nose before you can think of flossing. We will find you the quiet cafes that you might retreat to, where writers wear pretentious berets and pose pensively as they compose -- because they will be writing a sixteen-thousand line epic about us.

We will find you in the Battledome as you smite Punchbag Bob -- because Punchbag Bob has already been enlightened by our moustachy ways. We will find you at the Tombola where the Tiki Tak Man looms -- because he has seen the light, and sports one of us on his mask like a piece de resistance.

We will find you in the throne room of King Hagan and his splendid blonde ‘stache, and as the poisonous clouds disperse around Hubrid Nox you will find that one of our brethren is there to greet you under his nose.

We will appear in your dreams as you count Babaas and faint from the sheer boredom of it; we will adorn the gentle visage of every faerie of every element that stops to give you a faerie quest, and you will find that they all want one item: the one, the only, the Hairy Tash.

No place is safe. So brush up, stand tall, adhere fiercely to upper lips through their twitches and turns. And remember, always, my brethren, our motto, our way:

Moustache first, ask questions later.

Thank you.