Look. I know it's embarrassing, but I don't necessarily think it's something to be ashamed of, although I would, frankly, rather that you didn't bang on about it. It is, after all, the sort of thing that could happen to any man. And, to be honest, probably does, even if they would be loathe to admit it. Not that it's happened to me before, of course (well, actually, that's not strictly true, but I'm not going to admit to that, am I?).
Anyway. Yes, it's true. I would appear to be suffering from a case of Premature Moustache. The main symptom of which would seem to some whispery apparition that seems to be nebulously coterminous with the rough area also occupied by my upper lip.
Now in your older gent, a retired colonel, an ex-wing commander, a former Surrey stockbroker, this may seem to be acceptable, but in a man of my extreme youth it might seem somewhat unconventional. Alas, at times of great need, as fellow males will implicitly know, sometimes only some configuration or other of facial hair will do. My great need being that of someone persuaded by so-called 'friends' that I am in urgent need of an extremely severe haircut, something, for the cognoscenti, rather more brutal than a Number One.
I am over compensating, perhaps, but, I feel, better to try to compensate with, as we aficionados know it, a 'tache, than to go completely over the top and actually grow a full beard and therefore find myself classified amongst assorted vegetarian cranks, sandal wearers, whale huggers and bunny Nazis. Or, worse, cyclists.
Actually, I think I want to look like James Ellroy. Could be worse role models. If you're the sort whose mother was murdered when you were ten and then developed a disturbing interest in psychopathic killing, that is. Now, where's that razor?