Twelve black moustache designs in varied shapes, each on a white diamond-shaped sheet, arranged in a grid on a white background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Twelve moustache designs in a grid

Black and grey · Flash

The image shows twelve black moustache designs, each printed on a white diamond-shaped backing and arranged in three rows of four. The moustaches vary in shape, from thick handlebar and curled styles to thin, flat and wavy versions, all drawn in solid black ink. The plain white background and even spacing give the sheet a clean, catalogue-style composition.

Moustache

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourselves down, the lot of you, and mind the sawdust. You want to know how Alfie Pring took the Saturday cup at the Palais in Margate? I'll tell it, but you'll hold your tea while I do.

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Alfie was a clerk at the rates office with a face like a boiled egg and not a hair on his lip to his name. Every Saturday the Palais hung a silver cup above the bandstand for the finest moustache in the room, and every Saturday some fellow with a waxed handlebar walked off with it. Alfie kept his savings in a cocoa tin, and in that tin lay a sheet of twelve little white diamonds, each with a moustache printed on it, bought off a man on the pier for a shilling.

Tuesday he tried the thin one, the flat pencil stroke that made him look like a bank manager. Wednesday it was the curled one, sweeping up at the ends like a cheerful question. Thursday he stuck up the wavy one and his mother said he looked like a sea captain who had lost his ship. Each night he practised his waltz in the back bedroom, counting out loud and never once matching his moustache to his mood.

Saturday came. He chose the thick dark one with the curl at the corners, pressed it on with a licked thumb, and walked the floor. The band struck up Moonlight Bay. Halfway across, a girl in green laughed at him, and he laughed back, and the moustache stayed put. The judges gave him the cup, and he kept it on the mantel for years. The cup was never the prize, mind. The prize was the girl in green, who asked him to dance again before the lights went up.