I guess I must have stopped with the cowboy gear some time around ‘59. The Wild West scene was taking off in movie theatres all over the country, and I needed to make my mark as an intern with a more distinctive look than a checked shirt and matching stetson. So when I broke my razor plucking breakfast one morning, and went a whole week without a shave, that’s when it all started, that whole Evil Editor chic.
My fledgling muttonchops were unruly at first, like when Arooooologong lost most of her fur the one time I fed her a live chimpanzee*, but this was back in the days before shredders, remember, so I’d already mastered chopping stuff to pieces with scissors.
Like all the guys back then, I wanted to look like Elvis. But hey — by the time I was done grooming, the guys all craved face fuzz like mine. After a couple months, the New York Times sent a reporter down to check out this weird neighbourhood where the guys all looked like Roman legionaries. And the chicks hobbled round like they had rickets.
* Don’t try this, even with ordinary pets. Especially for a party piece at Thanksgiving.