That's probably why until this very moment, I forgot all about the mustache-growing advice that my dear departed papa used to freely hand out to all who would listen. And even to those who wouldn't.
I never saw my father without a mustache, always the same style - vaguely Hitlerish under the nose and tapering out to an abruptly abbreviated Snidely Whiplash at the sides of the mouth. A bit Don Corleone-esque, actually.
Although I never saw him take his own advice, he would coach wannabe mustachios that the sure-fire recipe for a thick luxurious lip rug was to religiously apply a poultice to coax the hair follicles:
honey on the outside, chicken shit on the inside,
because chicken shit pushes and honey pulls
How my dad ever came up with this, I never did find out. But then, much about the man was an utter mystery to me.
Good luck with the Mo-staches, gentlemen. Remember to filter your advice wisely.