“You know, except for the mustache, you look a lot like my mother,” one man said to another. The second man replied, “But I don’t have a mustache!” To which the first man replied, “Yes, but my mother does!”

How does this relate to my column? I am embarrassed to confess that this article discusses mustaches. But not just any kind of mustaches: handlebar mustaches. The kind of mustache you can decorate for Christmas. Ornaments or tinsel, your choice.

I was perusing an AP article this week about the handlebar-mustached mayor of Murray, Utah. He was preparing to shave off his (nearly foot-long) mustache for charity, much to the pleasure of his wife. Ouch! This article hit close to home.

I too boast a handlebar mustache, although I keep mine trimmed to a modest length. I have offered to shave off my mustache (and beard) to meet a dare: If our church folks produce a combined Sunday morning attendance of 300 or more, off she comes – for a week or two.

But I part company with the good mayor on this point: My wife suggested I grow it! We do fuss about its length, however. I want it a little longer than she does. We compromise well (which is why we are happily married).

It all started when we were checking in for a getaway at Brown County State Park’s “Abe Martin Lodge.” The clerk at the desk owned a small handlebar mustache that mesmerized us. I thought it was cool. I was delighted when Marylu suggested I grow one.

I have had a standard mustache since I was 17, and a beard since I was 32 (20 years). I wouldn’t lie to you – not by the hair of my chinny chin chin! OK, I’ve put on a few pounds over the last 20 years. Let me update myself – not by the hair of my chinny chin chins. I don’t know how many I have under there.

So two years ago I let my mustache evolve (with scissors in hand as its intelligent designer) into a handlebar. On the one hand, such a mustache is an inexpensive way to advertise a midlife crisis. It is a lot cheaper than buying silk shirts and neck chains. Besides, I don’t like to gross people out by opening my top two or three shirt buttons – I might catch cold. And growing a ponytail – that just sounds too greasy for me. But, then again, I am not aware of any crisis. Never been happier.

On the other hand, my handlebar mustache created a challenge: What does one use to “point it the right way?” I followed protocol for non-theological questions: I searched the Internet. I stumbled upon the British “Handlebar Club” and read up on what those old chaps use to “goop” their mustaches across the pond. What-o.

Mustache hair is nothing like hair on the head (if I can remember when I had some). It is more like bristle. It cannot be “trained,” only forced against nature. One member of “the club” suggested using wax from “toilet seal” wax rings. This worked extremely well, but left my mustache with an unnatural yellowish glow. Most irregular.

My neighborhood pharmacy does not carry mustache wax, so I attempted control with strong hair dressing. “My son uses this and it really holds his hair down,” the clerk assured me. It didn’t phase the bristly handlebar. Not a bit.

Then I found mustache wax at a competing pharmacy, and it tamed the beast, but I had to expend such a quantity that it would become an expensive proposition. I don’t do expensive (against my nature).

Then a blast from the past hit me. When kids first started “spiking” their hair, I heard they used Elmer’s School Glue. I thought this was crazy, yet they blazed the trail for me. Because it is school glue, it washes out easily with soap and water. It works like a charm. Glue with just a little mustache wax on the points. The result: I keep a stiff upper lip!

• Ed Vasicek is pastor of Highland Park Church and a weekly contributor to the Kokomo Tribune.