The Mustache Who Found Grandpa Stuck to Somebody’s Chin
The Mustache Who Found Grandpa Stuck to Somebody’s Chin
“You cannot reject my application because I do not know my grandfather’s name.”
Percival gave the folded hand towel between them three grave taps with his ceremonial comb.
“I have not rejected your application.”
“You put it in a tray marked DEFICIENT.”
“That is an administrative status.”
“It is an insult printed in capital letters.”
“It is both.”
Murray pulled his curled ends tighter.
He was a medium-sized black theatrical mustache of what he described as “traditional proportions” and what Trixie had once described as “the sort of mustache a pharmacist wears before getting arrested in a farce.”
Murray had not forgiven her.
He had, however, secretly decided that pharmacist implied education.
Percival rested his silver handlebar ends on the edge of the towel. Seventeen years in the Bellweather Playhouse costume department had given him a polished silver sheen, an elaborate curl, and the firm belief that every social problem could be improved by a committee.
“The Golden Whisker Society requires evidence,” Percival said. “Your application for elevated banquet status contains no documented ancestry.”
“My ancestry is understood.”
“By whom?”
“People.”
“Name one.”
Murray paused.
Across the costume workshop, Trixie gave a small snort from her wig stand.
“His ancestors.”
Percival turned his comb toward her.
“This is a closed application interview.”
“You’re doing it on a towel beside a sewing machine.”
“The location does not diminish the proceedings.”
“A woman hemmed Robin Hood pants here this afternoon.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“She sneezed into the thread tray.”
Percival visibly decided not to pursue that.
Murray shifted closer to the review table.
“My grandfather was undoubtedly a distinguished theatrical mustache.”
“Undoubtedly?”
“Almost undoubtedly.”
“So you do not know.”
“I know the type.”
“What type?”
“Refined.”
“That is not a manufacturing category.”
“Cultured.”
“Also not a manufacturing category.”
“Possibly hand-knotted.”
Percival’s fibers stiffened with interest.
“Documentation?”
“Lost.”
“Manufacturer?”
“Lost.”
“Packaging?”
“Discarded.”
“Original purchase record?”
“Temporarily misplaced.”
“You mean lost.”
“Misplaced by humans. That is different.”
From the beard drawer below came a voice.
“Maybe Grandpa was a five-dollar party mustache.”
Lionel rose into view.
The thick black beard had the general shape of a thundercloud and the temperament of a public prosecutor whose lunch had been delayed.
Murray looked down.
“No one asked the beard drawer.”
“You keep discussing inherited superiority above an open beard drawer.”
“The drawer is open because your people never close it.”
“We lack hands.”
“So do I. I manage.”
“You live six inches from the latch.”
“That sounds like planning.”
Lionel pushed farther out.
“Maybe your grandfather came on cardboard with plastic vampire teeth.”
Murray felt genuine offense down to his backing.
“Rule Seven: A gentleman never asks another gentleman whether he came from a multipack.”
Trixie tipped forward on her stand.
“You made that up.”
“It is ancient.”
“You said it for the first time yesterday.”
“I became aware of it yesterday.”
Percival tapped the towel.
“Order.”
“Whose order?” Lionel asked.
“The established order.”
“Meaning mustaches in the top drawers.”
“Drawer placement reflects preservation requirements.”
“It reflects snobbery.”
“It reflects humidity.”
“We are in the same cabinet.”
Percival’s left curl twitched.
Murray knew that twitch. It meant Percival had encountered a fact he intended to outlive rather than answer.
“The matter before us is Murray’s lineage.”
“Which he invented,” Trixie said.
“I did not invent my lineage.”
“You said your grandfather probably performed Shakespeare.”
“He may have.”
“Which Shakespeare?”
“All significant Shakespeare.”
Percival lifted the comb.
“Applicant.”
Murray turned back.
“The Society has tolerated uncertainty because your performance record is respectable.”
“Distinguished.”
“You were the mayor in Murder at the Harvest Festival.”
“A central role.”
“You were worn by an actor who forgot his trousers in Act Two.”
“That was not my department.”
“You were the detective in The Curse of the Rotary Telephone.”
“Strong reviews.”
“One reviewer called you ‘visible from the back row.’”
“That was praise.”
“You were also the French waiter in—”
“We need not review the entire file.”
“The waiter role had a glue incident.”
Murray went rigid.
“Rule Four: Never discuss glue failure in mixed company.”
Trixie said, “There are four eyebrows on the shelf.”
“Exactly.”
One of the eyebrows muttered, “We count when it’s embarrassing.”
Percival made a notation.
“Three documented corner lifts.”
“Environmental.”
“The actors perspired.”
“As I said. Environmental.”
“That is what actors do.”
“Not at that volume.”
Lionel laughed from below.
Murray ignored him.
Percival shuffled the application pages.
“The Golden Whisker Banquet begins tomorrow at midnight. If you want elevation to the upper tier, provide documented lineage before then.”
“Tomorrow?”
“You have known the date for eleven months.”
“I assumed my career would be sufficient.”
“The Society values pedigree.”
“The Society values whatever you put on a form.”
Lionel sounded pleased with himself.
Percival did not look down.
“The old inventory records may contain Murray’s acquisition history.”
Trixie perked up.
“Basement.”
Murray’s enthusiasm died.
The prop basement had one reliable function: making everything stored there smell slightly more municipal.
“I will retrieve the records.”
Percival nodded.
“And if you cannot establish category standing, your placement may be reconsidered.”
Lionel leaned out.
“Miscellaneous Hair?”
Every curl on Murray’s body tightened.
The Miscellaneous Hair drawer was not a category. It was where classification went to die.
Its residents included three braids with no known production history, a horse-tail fragment, something labeled POSSIBLY MONK, and a yellow tuft that had spent six years insisting it was sideburns despite having no visible left or right.
“I will not be placed in Miscellaneous Hair.”
“Then provide your lineage.”
Murray drew himself up.
“My grandfather was almost certainly a silver handlebar of excellent construction who performed serious theater.”
Trixie said, “You just added silver.”
“Age.”
“You just added handlebar.”
“Breeding.”
“You added serious theater.”
“A man may hope.”
“You are not a man.”
“It is a figure of speech.”
Percival closed the file.
“Midnight tomorrow.”
Murray turned away with as much dignity as an unattached strip of fake facial hair could produce.
Trixie hopped down from her stand and caught the edge of a folded collar.
“I’m coming.”
“I did not invite you.”
“I know.”
“This is private family research.”
“That is why I’m coming.”
“Why?”
“I’m professionally interested in seeing how badly this goes.”
“It will not go badly.”
“Current rating is six.”
“Six what?”
“Disaster.”
“We have not even left the room.”
“You promised a mustache tribunal proof of a grandfather whose name you do not know.”
“I know his nature.”
“You guessed his nationality yesterday.”
“British remained plausible.”
“You also said Belgian for twenty minutes.”
“I was exploring continental possibilities.”
Trixie slid toward the basement door.
Murray followed.
Behind them, Lionel called, “Check the novelty section!”
Murray did not turn around.
“Rule Eleven,” he said, “never answer heckling from below waist height.”
“You don’t have a waist.”
“Then the rule is especially strict.”
The Bellweather Playhouse prop basement had been organized by at least nine different people over forty years, each of whom had clearly believed the previous eight were cowards.
A wooden throne leaned against two plastic gravestones.
A papier-mâché moon sat inside a bathtub.
A box marked MEDIEVAL VEGETABLES contained four rubber chickens, a grapefruit made of foam, and a modern hamburger with sesame seeds.
Trixie looked inside.
“That is depressing.”
“The Middle Ages were difficult.”
“That burger has cheese.”
“Foreign court.”
They traveled along a warped shelf and crossed a measuring tape stretched over a gap between filing cabinets.
Murray disliked the basement.
It contained dust.
Not normal dust, either. Theater dust had personality. It carried old makeup, ancient fabric, powdered scenery, fragments of fake snow, human skin, and whatever had once fallen out of a Victorian couch during The Heiress Who Could Not Stop Sneezing.
Trixie stopped in front of a framed photograph.
Six actors stood in peasant costumes.
All six had enormous beards.
“Beard-heavy year.”
“Visual laziness.”
Another photograph showed pirates.
One actor’s beard reached his stomach.
“Compensation,” Murray said.
“For what?”
“I am not discussing human anatomy with a wig.”
“You brought it up.”
“I brought up proportion.”
A third picture showed a papier-mâché goat.
The goat wore a beard.
Trixie leaned in.
“That’s good work.”
“It is on livestock.”
“It sells the goat.”
“Nothing sells a goat.”
“Farmers would disagree.”
Murray moved on.
At the back of the basement stood a steel filing cabinet with one drawer hanging open.
A yellowed costume inventory card lay beneath a box of fake roses.
Trixie nudged it.
“Dot.”
The card stirred.
Typed letters near the top flexed.
“State inquiry category.”
Murray approached.
“My name is Murray. I require information about my family tree.”
“Invalid term.”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Family tree is not recognized inventory language.”
“It is universally recognized.”
“Not by inventory.”
Trixie settled beside him.
“This is going well.”
Murray tried again.
“My ancestry.”
“Insufficient.”
“My lineage.”
“Category?”
“Mustache.”
“Manufacturing, acquisition, performance, transfer, repair, disposal, reassignment, or contamination?”
Murray hesitated.
“Manufacturing.”
“Full request terminology?”
He stared at Dot.
“You know what I want.”
“Correct.”
“Then tell me.”
“No.”
Trixie made a pleased little noise.
“Seven.”
Murray lowered his voice.
“I request my synthetic accessory manufacturing lineage record.”
“Acceptable.”
“Finally.”
“Identifier?”
“Murray.”
“Inventory identifier?”
“Murray.”
“Human-assigned stock number?”
“Unknown.”
“Manufacturer?”
“Unknown.”
“Batch?”
“Unknown.”
“Acquisition date?”
“Approximately twelve years ago.”
“Exact date?”
“Unknown.”
“Retail source?”
“Unknown.”
“Packaging?”
“Discarded.”
Dot went still.
Murray waited.
“Are you searching?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Insufficient fields.”
Trixie bent over herself.
Murray spoke through clenched fibers.
“What information do you require that I actually possess?”
“Physical description.”
“Black mustache. Medium dimensions. Slight curl. Premium synthetic fiber.”
“Premium not recognized.”
“Professional-grade.”
“Not recognized.”
“High-quality.”
“Subjective.”
“Very good.”
“More subjective.”
Trixie whispered, “Try black.”
Murray ignored her.
“Black. Medium. Curled tips.”
“Backing material?”
“Woven mesh.”
“Stitch pattern?”
“Three central loops with reinforced sides.”
Dot shifted.
“Possible record.”
Murray immediately brightened.
“There.”
“Batch BH-88. Family Facial Ensemble.”
“Excellent.”
“Discount remainder stock.”
Murray’s brightness left.
Trixie said, “Eight.”
“BH presumably means British Heritage.”
“No.”
“Bespoke Handcrafted.”
“No.”
“Baronial Haberdashery.”
“No.”
Murray’s curl twitched.
“What does it mean?”
“Beard and Hair.”
The basement developed an unpleasant amount of silence.
Trixie looked at him.
Murray looked at Dot.
“That is a broad category.”
“Yes.”
“Meaningless in genealogical terms.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“Explain.”
“Family Facial Ensemble contained mixed facial-hair pieces.”
“Fine. My mustache could still derive from a premium mustache subline.”
“Additional linked record exists.”
Murray leaned closer.
“Read it.”
“Request parent-material transfer history.”
“What?”
“Use proper phrase.”
He scraped lightly against the shelf.
“I request parent-material transfer history.”
“For batch?”
“BH-88.”
Dot answered.
“Small facial pieces manufactured using recovered fibers and backing material from refurbished Gus unit.”
Trixie’s red strands lifted.
Murray did not move.
“Gus is a manufacturer.”
Dot remained silent.
“A craftsman.”
No response.
“A supplier.”
Nothing.
“A family surname.”
“Gus unit is an accessory.”
Murray swallowed without possessing the equipment.
“What category?”
Dot answered.
“Beard.”
Trixie said, “Nine.”
“No.”
“Are you arguing with me or the card?”
“Both.”
Dot continued.
“Parent material transferred following refurbishment.”
“Refurbishment is not ancestry.”
“Under theatrical accessory lineage custom, predecessor material establishes direct synthetic descent.”
“Whose custom?”
“Accessories.”
“I am an accessory and I have never heard of it.”
“You do not know your batch number.”
“That is unrelated.”
Trixie leaned closer to Dot.
“Is Gus still here?”
“Last known storage assignment: Facial Hair Cabinet, Beard Drawer B.”
Murray stared.
Trixie started toward the measuring tape.
“You coming?”
“No.”
“You want your grandfather.”
“I want evidence.”
“You got evidence.”
“I want contradictory evidence.”
“That is not how evidence works.”
“It is when the evidence is offensive.”
Trixie continued.
Murray remained beside Dot.
“Was Gus perhaps misclassified?”
“Possible.”
His curls lifted.
“Ha.”
“Classification error probability below two percent.”
They dropped again.
“Could Gus have originally been a mustache and later expanded?”
“No.”
“Could there have been another Gus?”
“Possible.”
“How many?”
“One Gus unit in relevant records.”
“Could he be dignified?”
“Not an inventory field.”
Murray finally turned toward the stairs.
Trixie waited at the bottom.
“What are you telling Percival?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What are you telling Gus?”
“Nothing until verified.”
“We are going to his drawer.”
“Exactly.”
“To meet him.”
“To inspect the alleged connection.”
“Your grandpa lives six feet above the place where you’ve been insulting beards for twelve years.”
“That sentence contains several unsupported assumptions.”
Trixie looked delighted.
“Ten.”
Murray started climbing.
“Rule Twelve: No genealogy is valid until witnessed by the alleged ancestor.”
“You invented that just now.”
“It existed privately.”
“That is not what a rule is.”
“The great rules begin privately.”
“Most bad habits do too.”
The Beard Drawer smelled of spirit gum, peppermint, dust, face powder, and old actors.
Murray had always thought it smelled that way because beards lacked standards.
Now he briefly considered the possibility that standards had never been the issue.
He dismissed the thought.
Lionel slept near the front.
Behind him lay black beards, brown beards, white beards, ginger beards, braided beards, biblical beards, wizard beards, fake stubble, and one false goatee that had been ostracized for claiming independence.
Trixie whispered, “Gus?”
Nothing happened.
Murray cleared his throat.
“We seek an accessory designated Gus.”
A voice from deep inside said, “Who’s asking?”
Something moved.
Lionel woke with a grunt.
A huge gray-brown beard shoved through the pile.
Murray’s entire understanding of ancestry attempted to leave through an emergency exit.
Gus was enormous.
He had uneven curls, a repaired backing, a thin patch on the left side, and fibers that had long ago stopped trying to agree on direction.
Deep inside him glinted traces of silver glitter.
Not tasteful glitter.
Old glitter.
The sort that had survived cleaning out of spite.
Gus pushed Lionel aside.
“That me.”
Murray found his voice.
“You are Gus?”
“Depends. Debt?”
“No.”
“Complaint?”
“No.”
“Paternity suit?”
“No.”
Trixie said, “Close.”
Gus inspected Murray.
His whole beard went still.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Murray did not like the tone.
Gus moved closer.
“Little fuzz.”
“What?”
The beard lunged.
Murray was lifted, wrapped, squeezed, and swallowed halfway into gray-brown curls.
“This is assault.”
“Hug.”
“Release me.”
“Look at you.”
“Stop looking.”
“Same curl pattern.”
“Coincidence.”
“Same backing.”
“Common.”
“Triple center stitch.”
Murray stopped.
Gus flipped him over.
“Three loops. Reinforced sides. Knew it.”
“You knew nothing.”
“Kid, your backside is family.”
Lionel made a noise.
Murray twisted.
“Nobody says backside again.”
Gus released him and rummaged through his own fibers.
“Still got something.”
He produced half of a cloth manufacturing label.
BH-8.
A partial serial number.
Murray looked at it.
Then he looked away.
“Circumstantial.”
Trixie said, “Your definition of circumstantial is doing heroic work.”
Gus laughed.
“Thirty-eight years, I keep this stupid thing. Turns out it was worth keeping.”
“Why?”
“Lot got split up. Some tossed. Some chopped down. Some reused. Heard they made smaller face pieces from old stock.”
“Reclaimed fibers.”
“Scraps.”
“Reclaimed.”
“Factory leftovers.”
Murray flinched.
“Rule Fourteen: One never discusses another gentleman’s manufacturing remnants in public.”
“You are in the beard drawer.”
“Lionel is present.”
Lionel pushed forward.
“I want clarification.”
“You will receive none.”
“Is Murray beard-descended?”
“No.”
Gus said, “Yep.”
Murray turned.
“You do not understand the terminology.”
“I understand grandkid.”
“Artificial facial hair does not possess genetics.”
“You’ve got threads.”
“That is not genetics.”
“You came from pieces of me.”
“That is textile recycling.”
“That is how we do family.”
“Who decided this?”
“Everybody who isn’t currently trying to escape it.”
Trixie gave a thoughtful rustle.
“That’s strong.”
Murray pointed a curl.
“Do not encourage him.”
Gus leaned down.
“What’d they name you?”
“Murray.”
“Nice.”
“It is.”
“You lot were nearly called Junior Face Mix.”
Murray froze.
“No.”
“Budget Lip Pieces was also on the sheet.”
“No.”
Trixie was shaking.
“Do not laugh.”
“I am not.”
“You are vibrating.”
“I’m holding it in.”
Lionel looked from Gus to Murray.
“How long have you hidden this?”
“I learned of it eleven minutes ago.”
“You have spent years criticizing beard culture.”
“I have criticized particular beard behaviors.”
“You said long beards were ‘undisciplined chin events.’”
“Aesthetic commentary.”
“You said elastic was morally suspicious.”
“It is.”
“You said beards should not participate in adhesive tasting because of ‘surface-area greed.’”
“That was a resource issue.”
Gus barked a laugh.
“You got fancy.”
“I have always been fancy.”
“Where’d that come from?”
“Standards.”
“Your batch came from a discount box.”
Murray turned toward Trixie.
“You told him?”
“He guessed because his tag exists.”
Gus shook himself.
A few specks of glitter drifted out.
Murray stared at them.
“What is that?”
“Glitter.”
“I know what glitter is.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“Why are you full of it?”
“No clue.”
“How can you not know?”
“Thirty-eight years.”
“That is not an answer.”
“Could’ve been Christmas.”
“Which Christmas?”
“Any of them.”
Trixie poked one silver speck.
“Maybe a fairy show.”
“Could’ve been The Enchanted Taxidermist.”
Murray paused.
“The what?”
“Played an old wizard.”
That caught him.
“Wizard.”
“Yep.”
“Elderly?”
“Very.”
“Distinguished?”
“Had a staff.”
Murray allowed a small lift of hope.
“What happened to him?”
“Turned into a pirate accountant after intermission.”
Hope died.
“You are lying.”
“Wish I was. Costume change took four minutes.”
“What else have you played?”
“Three prophets.”
“That is respectable.”
“One had fleas.”
“Less so.”
“Drunken fisherman.”
“Predictable.”
“Diseased king.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Background Viking.”
“Common.”
“Woman disguised as a monk.”
“Why?”
“Plot.”
“Which plot?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
Trixie asked, “Anything else?”
“Half a yak.”
Murray stared.
“No.”
“Rear beard of a two-headed troll.”
“Stop.”
“Haunted lumberjack.”
“Stop listing.”
“Pirate accountant.”
“You said that.”
“Good role.”
“You cannot have played all these.”
Gus shrugged.
“Every respectable role that requires itching.”
Trixie had folded almost completely in half.
Murray straightened himself.
“Until this matter is verified, no one speaks about it.”
Lionel said, “I will speak about it.”
“You will not.”
“I am beard representation.”
“Nobody elected you.”
“Beards do not require elections to know when something is insulting.”
Murray pointed at Gus.
“You especially.”
Gus brightened.
“Surprise banquet?”
“What?”
“You don’t want me talking because you’re doing a reveal.”
“No.”
“Family presentation.”
“No.”
“Big entrance?”
“No.”
“Got it.”
“You have got nothing.”
Gus winked.
Murray had never before seen a beard wink.
He disliked that too.
“Do not attend the Golden Whisker Banquet.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“I am forbidding you.”
“Cute.”
“Rule Sixteen: Unverified relatives may not attend formal whisker functions.”
Gus laughed.
“You keep those in a book?”
“No.”
“Then nobody can check.”
Murray opened his mouth.
Trixie said, “That is also strong.”
He turned on her.
“What is the disaster rating?”
She considered Gus, Lionel, the tag, the glitter, and Murray’s expression.
“Twelve.”
Operation Respectable Grandfather began with scissors, which should have been enough warning.
Gus sat on a mannequin head in the costume workshop while Murray and Trixie inspected him.
“You understand the purpose,” Murray said.
“Make me handsome.”
“Presentable.”
“Handsome.”
“Less aggressively beard-shaped.”
Gus laughed.
Trixie clipped one side upward.
Murray studied him.
“No.”
She folded the lower half beneath.
“No.”
She rolled both ends.
“No.”
She pinned the center.
Gus now resembled two squirrels fighting under a hat.
Trixie stepped back.
“I think we found his formal look.”
“We did not.”
“Thirteen.”
“Undo everything.”
Gus shook free of the pins.
“You know this is insulting.”
“I am improving your banquet prospects.”
“I have banquet prospects?”
“You do not.”
“Then why improve them?”
Murray ignored the question.
He found two cardboard forms from novelty mustaches and tucked them beneath Gus.
The beard bulged around them.
Trixie tilted her head.
“Now he looks like a landlord hiding behind curtains.”
“Remove them.”
Gus laughed again.
“Had curtains once.”
Murray stopped.
“You played curtains?”
“No. Hid behind them because the actor forgot his entrance.”
“That is not a role.”
“Got applause.”
“Accidental applause.”
“Still applause.”
Murray inspected the bald patch.
“What happened here?”
“Quick change.”
“Bad glue?”
“Good glue. Bad human.”
Gus shifted on the mannequin.
“Actor ripped me off without loosening the gum.”
Murray recoiled.
“Barbaric.”
“Took backing with me.”
“That explains the repair.”
“Took some skin with him too.”
Trixie said, “Fourteen with medical content.”
Murray closed his curls.
“Do not discuss skin.”
“You asked.”
“I asked about your fibers.”
“Skin was involved.”
“It did not need speaking lines.”
Gus continued.
“Same actor ate onions before shows.”
“Stop.”
“Breath came through me.”
“Stop.”
“One night he had chili.”
“Stop.”
“Costume lady sprayed me with peppermint.”
Murray paused.
“That explains the drawer.”
“Exactly.”
Trixie rummaged through clips.
“I have ribbon.”
“No.”
“Tiny jeweled pin.”
“No.”
“Powder?”
“Potentially.”
They powdered Gus’s bald patch.
It looked better.
Gus sneezed despite lacking lungs.
The powder exploded off him.
A cloud covered Murray.
Glitter emerged with it.
A silver fleck landed directly across Murray’s center.
Trixie examined him.
“That works on you.”
“Remove it.”
“You look festive.”
“Remove it.”
She brushed it away.
Three more pieces stuck.
Murray stared at Gus.
“Where does the glitter keep coming from?”
“Same place as regret. Deep down.”
“That is not useful.”
“I’ve been cleaned.”
“Poorly.”
“Many times.”
“Not enough.”
“Kid, some things become structural.”
Trixie lifted Gus’s left edge.
“There is glitter behind the backing.”
Murray recoiled.
“How?”
“Christmas?”
Gus suggested.
“Christmas does not get behind backing.”
“You haven’t worked enough Christmas.”
Murray resumed styling.
“Your upper fibers can be narrowed.”
“No trimming.”
“Minimal.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“These curls survived a goat.”
Trixie stopped.
“The goat?”
Gus sounded proud.
“Papier-mâché. Noah’s Ark, But Local.”
Murray slowly turned.
“The photograph downstairs.”
“That was me.”
“You were glued to a goat.”
“Stapled.”
Murray nearly came apart.
“Stapled?”
“Different times.”
“You were physically stapled to livestock scenery.”
“Held all week.”
“You tell that as though it is impressive.”
“Try holding through six matinees.”
Trixie said, “I’m impressed.”
“Do not be impressed.”
“Too late.”
Gus fluffed himself.
Murray’s plan had failed.
No amount of pinning could make Gus look like a handlebar mustache without creating a public health concern.
“Were you at least part of a matched premium set?”
“Matched set, yes.”
“Premium?”
“Box said Deluxe.”
Murray brightened.
“There.”
“Sticker said Clearance.”
His brightness left.
“Any idea where your own material came from?”
“Nope.”
“Could you descend from mustaches?”
“Could.”
Murray leaned forward.
“Could?”
“Could descend from a sofa.”
He froze.
Gus laughed.
“Joking.”
“Rule Nineteen: Upholstery ancestry jokes are prohibited.”
“That one feels personal.”
Footsteps sounded outside.
Every accessory froze.
The workshop door opened.
Marjorie Bell entered with glasses hanging around her neck and a pincushion strapped to one wrist.
She muttered, “Where’s the big king beard?”
Murray’s backing tightened.
Gus lay spread across the mannequin.
Marjorie spotted him.
“There you are.”
A human hand descended.
Gus vanished upward.
Murray remained motionless beside a box of hooks.
Marjorie carried Gus to the door.
“King, peasant elder, maybe hermit.”
Gus shifted one curl toward Murray.
The manufacturing tag was still lodged inside his backing.
The door closed.
Murray sprang up.
“The tag.”
Trixie hopped after him.
“He also has your grandfather.”
“I am prioritizing evidence.”
“That is very on brand.”
They reached the workshop edge.
Beyond it came a director’s shout from the stage.
“Where is the king’s beard?”
A costumer answered.
“Got it!”
Murray looked down the corridor.
“Rule Twenty-Two: Family verification supersedes rehearsal.”
Trixie moved beside him.
“Is that really a rule?”
“No.”
“Good. You’re getting efficient.”
Kings, Queens, and Other Tax Problems was the Bellweather Playhouse’s most ambitious production in years, which meant it had nineteen characters, six functional costumes, and scenery everybody was afraid to touch.
Murray and Trixie traveled into the wings beneath a costume cart.
Onstage, a king stood beneath a painted stone arch.
Gus covered half his face.
The actor boomed, “You cannot tax the moon!”
A duke shouted back, “Then we shall annex it!”
Trixie whispered, “This is bad.”
Murray watched Gus.
“Focus.”
The scene continued.
The king raised a wooden goblet.
Gus whispered, “Little fuzz.”
Murray hissed from beneath the cart.
“Do not talk.”
“Nice stage.”
“You have been on it for decades.”
“Still nice.”
“You are currently being worn.”
“I noticed.”
The director called a stop.
A costumer ripped Gus free and rushed him toward another actor.
Murray darted after.
Too late.
Gus was attached to a peasant elder.
The director frowned.
“He looks too wealthy.”
The costumer frowned at Gus.
“How do you make a beard look poor?”
Trixie whispered, “Criminally underrated profession.”
The costumer mussed Gus.
Gus returned to the stage looking exactly the same except angrier on one side.
He was removed again.
Hermit.
Removed.
Dead nobleman.
Gus ended up glued to an actor lying on a wooden bier.
Murray crept close behind the curtain.
“Now.”
Trixie followed.
Gus whispered from the dead actor’s chin.
“Family advice.”
“No.”
“Never trust spirit gum if it smells sweet.”
“Why?”
“Cheap formula.”
“I know adhesives.”
“Then you know.”
The dead nobleman groaned, “My lands shall pass to my lawful heir.”
Gus whispered, “Also never trust a director who says a quick change is ‘basically nothing.’”
“I need the tag.”
“You’re ignoring quality advice.”
“I have survived twelve years.”
“I’ve survived thirty-eight.”
“You have been part of a yak.”
“Exactly.”
The corpse sat up.
Murray fled.
A strip of adhesive on a nearby mannequin caught him.
He stuck sideways across its cheek.
Trixie stopped.
“Fifteen.”
“Help.”
“You look adventurous.”
“Help.”
“Almost continental.”
“Trixie.”
She grabbed his edge and pulled.
His curl stretched.
“Careful.”
“Dignity or freedom?”
“Both.”
“Pick.”
“Freedom.”
She yanked.
Murray flew into a box of crowns.
When he climbed out, one gold cardboard crown had landed over him.
Trixie looked down.
“Royal.”
“Remove it.”
“You wanted noble ancestry.”
“Remove the crown.”
She did.
Something on the wall caught Murray’s attention.
A faded photograph.
THE MISER OF MILLER STREET — 1990.
A younger Gus hung from the face of the lead actor.
Beside him, another performer wore a small black mustache.
Its ends curled exactly like Murray’s.
The caption beneath read:
COSTUMES SUPPLIED FROM BH FAMILY FACIAL ENSEMBLE.
Murray stopped moving.
Trixie climbed onto the frame.
“That looks exactly like you.”
“It is merely a common design.”
“Same curl.”
“Common.”
“Same width.”
“Common.”
“Same cheap backing shape.”
“Not common.”
A silver voice behind them said, “Interesting.”
Murray turned.
Percival stood on a hanging sash.
His ceremonial comb gleamed.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.”
“This photograph proves very little.”
“It proves the BH set existed here thirty-six years ago.”
“It could be misleading.”
“It has a caption.”
“Captions are often incomplete.”
“What would make that one complete?”
Murray searched.
“A footnote.”
Trixie said, “You’re losing altitude.”
Percival descended.
“Emergency lineage hearing. Tonight.”
“That is unnecessary.”
“Under established whisker precedent—”
“Which one?”
Percival hesitated.
Murray noticed.
“Which precedent?”
“The relevant precedent.”
“That is not a precedent.”
“I chair the Society.”
“That is also not a precedent.”
Percival lifted his comb.
“Tonight.”
He left.
Murray stared at the photograph.
Trixie looked at him.
“What’s the rating?”
“Do not.”
“Sixteen.”
The Emergency Whisker Hearing opened at one fifteen in the morning.
Percival presided from a pincushion.
He struck the towel with his ceremonial comb.
One tooth snapped.
Every accessory looked at it.
Percival looked at it.
The tooth lay beside him.
He quietly pushed it beneath the towel.
“The hearing will come to order.”
Trixie whispered, “Very statesmanlike.”
Murray stood at the center.
Gus occupied enough space beside him to force three pencil mustaches onto a spool.
Lionel had produced seven written grievances.
Murray had no idea where he stored them.
When asked, Lionel had said, “Records.”
When asked how a beard without hands maintained records, Lionel had said, “Deflection.”
Percival lifted the comb.
“The Society will determine whether applicant Murray possesses direct synthetic descent from Gus.”
“Alleged descent,” Murray said.
Gus leaned toward him.
“I’m here.”
“Alleged interpretation.”
“Better.”
Lionel unfolded a grievance.
“I request the applicant acknowledge beard ancestry.”
“Denied.”
“You cannot deny the request.”
“I just did.”
“That is not procedure.”
“There was no procedure until ten seconds ago.”
“Exactly. You abused the vacuum.”
Percival tapped the table.
“State your relationship to Gus.”
Murray had prepared several phrases.
None looked good now.
“Gus has had a longstanding association with my family.”
Gus looked interested.
“What association?”
“Professional.”
“How?”
“In a service capacity.”
Gus stared.
Murray continued.
“Family employee.”
Silence.
Trixie made a strangled noise.
Lionel leaned forward.
“Employee?”
“Broadly.”
Gus said, “No.”
“Perhaps employee is not technically ideal.”
Percival asked, “Then what is he?”
“Ceremonial beard.”
Gus turned.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“A historic family role.”
“I was glued to strangers.”
“Ceremonially.”
“No.”
Lionel shoved a grievance toward Murray.
“Beard exploitation.”
“Withdrawn.”
Percival said, “Applicant will stop inventing relationships.”
Murray drew himself up.
“Gus may be better described as a distant textile associate.”
Trixie folded in half.
Gus laughed so hard glitter fell out.
Lionel said, “I want that entered exactly.”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
“Strike it.”
“There is no stenographer.”
“Then how is anything entered?”
Lionel lifted his grievance slips.
Murray hated him.
Percival continued.
“Does Gus possess a manufacturing tag?”
“Yes,” Gus said.
“No,” Murray said at the same time.
Everyone looked at Murray.
He adjusted.
“Not verified.”
Gus produced the half tag.
“Got it right here.”
Murray tried a different approach.
“There remains a possibility of misclassification.”
“Thirty-eight years in Beard Drawer B,” Lionel said.
“Storage is not identity.”
“You have spent twelve years claiming upper-drawer placement proves mustache superiority.”
“That was architectural theory.”
Percival inspected the tag.
“BH-88.”
“Potentially.”
“It is printed.”
“Printing can mislead.”
Trixie whispered, “Seventeen.”
Percival looked at Gus.
“Place of manufacture?”
“Ohio.”
Murray’s thoughts panicked.
His mouth got there before the rest of him.
“Possibly French.”
Nobody spoke.
Gus slowly turned.
“What?”
Murray committed.
“There are certain stylistic qualities.”
“I was made in Ohio.”
“The tag may have traveled.”
“It says Ohio.”
“An Ohio tag may have been applied after import.”
Trixie covered her face with her own hair.
Lionel said, “You are accusing your grandfather of being French to avoid beard ancestry.”
“I am not accusing anyone.”
“What are you doing?”
“Exploring.”
Gus looked delighted.
Percival’s remaining comb teeth shook.
“Applicant will refrain from introducing unsupported nationality theories.”
“Agreed.”
The hearing continued.
Dot’s records were read.
The photograph was examined.
The stitching matched.
Gus’s half tag matched the BH-88 designation.
Murray’s arguments became smaller.
Textile recycling.
Classification ambiguity.
The philosophical limits of grandparenthood in manufactured goods.
Whether ancestry required biological inheritance when nobody involved possessed cells.
Gus answered most objections with, “You’re still made from my stuff.”
Eventually Percival struck the towel.
Another comb tooth bent sideways.
“The Society finds the lineage evidence highly credible.”
Lionel said, “Beard grandpa.”
Percival ignored him.
Murray braced for rejection.
Percival continued.
“This creates an unprecedented eligibility question. No mustache seeking elevated membership has documented direct beard ancestry.”
Murray looked up.
“What?”
“The matter will become the central case of tomorrow’s banquet.”
“What?”
“Formal argument will be heard.”
“What?”
Trixie leaned close.
“You’re repeating yourself.”
Murray turned on Percival.
“You are making my family history the entertainment?”
“It is not entertainment.”
Trixie said, “It absolutely is.”
Percival kept going.
“All members will receive notice.”
Lionel brightened.
“I will prepare a statement.”
“No.”
“A beard-interest filing.”
“No.”
“Forty minutes.”
“No.”
“Twenty-seven with interruptions.”
“Stop.”
Gus wrapped a curl around Murray.
“Big night.”
Murray pulled free.
“This proves nothing about your own pedigree.”
Gus paused.
“My what?”
Murray found one remaining avenue.
“If you descend from prestigious mustache stock, this entire issue changes.”
Trixie stared.
“You found a beard grandfather and now you want to find his mustache grandfather.”
“Correct.”
“This is genealogy as a hostage situation.”
Murray headed for the basement.
Gus called after him.
“Want me to come?”
“No.”
“I know stuff about me.”
Murray stopped.
“Fine.”
Trixie followed.
“What are we at?”
She thought about it.
“Seventeen, spiritually.”
Dot required exact wording.
By the fourth failed request, Murray considered setting fire to the filing system despite lacking fire, hands, or a sane method.
“Historical family tree.”
“Invalid.”
“Synthetic lineage record.”
“Incomplete.”
“Accessory ancestry record.”
“Obsolete phrase.”
“Gus history.”
“Nonstandard.”
Trixie leaned against a cardboard moon.
“You could die here.”
“We do not die.”
“You could become archival.”
Murray finally achieved the accepted phrase.
“Comprehensive Accessory Service and Provenance Record, cross-indexed by informal unit designation Gus.”
Dot settled.
“Accepted.”
Murray nearly wept.
“Read.”
“Gus unit acquired thirty-eight years ago from regional costume supplier clearance stock.”
“Clearance again.”
“Initial production: The Wizard of Willow County.”
Murray brightened.
“Excellent.”
“Elementary-school gymnasium.”
Less excellent.
Gus sounded nostalgic.
“Sticky floor.”
Dot continued.
“Fishermen Prefer Fridays.”
“Drunken fisherman,” Gus said.
“Stop confirming.”
“Prophets on Parade.”
“Three prophets.”
“We know.”
“Second one got fleas.”
“We did not know, and I resent learning it.”
“The Pirate Accountant of Penzance County.”
Trixie sat up.
“That was real?”
Dot produced a photograph.
There stood Gus, beneath an eye patch, on an actor dressed as a pirate holding an abacus.
Trixie went quiet.
“That is incredible.”
Murray stared.
“That is a crime.”
Gus puffed.
“Good reviews.”
“The actor is wearing two belts.”
“Pirate.”
“That does not explain two belts.”
Dot produced more photographs.
Haunted lumberjack.
Diseased king.
Three prophets.
Woman disguised as monk.
Background Viking.
Half a yak.
Murray inspected the yak.
“You said half.”
“Front.”
“That is worse.”
“How?”
“I do not know yet.”
Then came the two-headed troll.
One head wore Gus normally.
A second section of Gus appeared attached backward behind the other head.
Trixie slowly turned.
“Rear beard.”
Gus sounded pleased.
“Told you.”
Murray whispered, “I thought that was a phrase you had invented.”
“Nope.”
“Why did a rear head need a beard?”
“Director said silhouette.”
“That means nothing.”
“Got laughs.”
The records continued.
School rentals.
Holiday pageants.
Dinner theater.
An experimental show staged entirely on ladders.
A musical about zoning.
A Viking wedding comedy.
A children’s production in which Gus had played both Santa and an elderly cabbage.
Murray stared.
“How does a cabbage have a beard?”
“Director’s concept.”
“That phrase has killed more dignity than glue failure.”
Trixie examined the performance count.
“Gus.”
“Yeah?”
“This is enormous.”
Murray looked.
It was.
Thirty-eight years of continuous service.
Hundreds of performances.
Repairs.
Emergency substitutions.
Last-minute fittings.
Outdoor shows.
School shows.
Professional rentals.
Community productions.
The old beard had worked constantly.
Murray disliked how much that impressed him.
“Anything prestigious?” he asked.
Dot produced another card.
“Notable service incident.”
He leaned in.
“Proceed.”
“Production: King Lear of Maple Avenue. Premium hand-knotted lead beard experienced catastrophic backing failure twelve minutes before curtain.”
Gus made a satisfied noise.
“That bastard.”
Murray turned.
“Who?”
“The premium beard. Wouldn’t speak to the drawer.”
“What happened?”
“Split right down the center.”
Trixie asked, “And you?”
“Costume lady grabbed me.”
“No fitting?”
“No time.”
“No trimming?”
“Nope.”
“Actor compatibility?”
“He had a chin.”
Murray stared.
“That cannot be your standard.”
“Worked.”
Dot read.
“Gus substituted for full performance. Production completed. Contemporary review praised convincing age makeup.”
Murray looked at Gus.
The old beard had gone on cold, oversized, badly fitted, with no preparation.
And succeeded.
“That was good work,” Murray said before he could stop himself.
Gus went quiet for half a second.
“Damn right.”
Murray immediately corrected.
“I mean technically.”
“Sure.”
“Do not make it emotional.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Dot shifted.
“Related Golden Whisker Society founding record.”
Murray turned back.
“What relation?”
“Cross-referenced after service commendation.”
“Read.”
Dot recited.
“Eligibility for recognition shall derive from distinguished service to performance, including craftsmanship, longevity, adaptability, reliability, and contribution under theatrical necessity.”
Trixie became still.
Murray read the card again.
No pedigree requirement.
No manufacturing prestige.
No prohibition on beards.
No ancestry test.
Only distinguished service.
Trixie looked at him.
“Percival invented half the system.”
“Expanded it.”
“He invented it.”
“Traditions develop.”
“Bullshit develops too.”
Murray stared at the founding rule.
Under its actual wording, Gus was not merely eligible.
He was spectacularly eligible.
Gus moved beside him.
“Guess the yak paid off.”
Murray took the archival card.
He slid it behind the filing cabinet.
Trixie’s red bob lifted.
“Oh, you absolute coward.”
“This requires authentication.”
“By whom?”
“Appropriate authorities.”
“Who?”
“Still determining.”
“You hid it because Gus qualifies.”
“I secured it because premature disclosure would destabilize proceedings.”
“You mean your proceedings.”
“The banquet is tomorrow.”
Gus sounded different.
“You don’t want them seeing that?”
Murray did not answer.
He headed toward the stairs.
Trixie followed after a moment.
Her voice was quieter.
“Eighteen.”
Lionel found out.
Murray never discovered how.
By nine that evening, the entire Facial Hair Cabinet knew an archival card had been removed from the basement.
By nine fifteen, the eyebrows knew.
By nine twenty, Miscellaneous Hair knew, although its version involved a stolen inheritance, three illegal wigs, and a French duke.
The cabinet filled for an informal confrontation.
Murray stood on the ledge.
Percival faced him.
Lionel had accumulated even more papers.
“Charge,” Lionel said, “heritage suppression.”
“Inflammatory.”
“Evidence concealment.”
“Misleading.”
“Archive theft.”
“Wrong.”
“What do you call it?”
“Temporary custodial withholding.”
Trixie muttered, “A phrase only guilt could invent.”
Percival raised his bent comb.
“Produce the card.”
“I question whether this setting is appropriate.”
“Produce it.”
“I question whether the Society has jurisdiction.”
“You applied to the Society.”
“That does not answer the question.”
Percival’s curls tightened.
“Under established whisker precedent—”
Murray interrupted.
“Which precedent?”
Silence.
“Name it.”
Percival lowered the comb slightly.
Lionel noticed.
“So there is no precedent.”
“There are customs.”
“Written?”
“Not all customs require writing.”
“Funny how that works whenever you’re losing.”
Gus pushed out of the beard drawer.
He no longer sounded amused.
“Kid.”
Murray turned.
“This is procedural.”
“Did you find something about me?”
“Potentially.”
“Does it help?”
Trixie answered.
“Yes.”
Murray looked at her.
She did not move.
Gus looked back at him.
“And you hid it.”
“I delayed it.”
“Why?”
“The banquet structure is already unstable.”
“What does it say?”
“Service matters.”
“How much?”
“Longevity, reliability, adaptability.”
Gus waited.
Murray hated being waited at.
“It means you qualify.”
The old beard stayed quiet.
Lionel muttered something from below.
Percival avoided looking at anyone.
Gus finally asked, “You ashamed of me?”
Murray’s first instinct was to argue the wording.
His second was worse.
“This is not about shame.”
“Good.”
“It is about status.”
Gus gave one short laugh.
“That’s shame with paperwork.”
Murray bristled.
“I have built a reputation.”
“Doing what?”
“Performing.”
“So have I.”
“At a different level.”
“Yeah. More.”
“You were a yak.”
“Front half.”
“That is not helping.”
“Did six shows.”
“You were a cabbage.”
“Strong matinee.”
“You were stapled to a goat.”
“Held all week.”
The beard moved closer.
“I’ve been glued to amateurs with garlic breath since before most of this cabinet existed. I’ve been pulled off dry, sprayed with peppermint, powdered green, stuffed in coat pockets, left in hot cars, frozen in storage, rained on during outdoor Shakespeare, and worn backward by a man who thought the backing seam was decorative.”
A few accessories winced.
Gus continued.
“I spent eight weeks on a guy who kept hard candy in his cheek during dialogue. I did Christmas with a man who ate tuna between shows. I have no shame left. Used the last of it years ago.”
Murray looked at him.
“That is disgusting.”
“Correct.”
“You could have omitted the tuna.”
“Important context.”
Gus pulled out his half tag.
“I kept this because I thought some of the old set might still be around.”
Murray’s curls loosened slightly.
“For thirty-eight years?”
“Yeah.”
“That is excessive.”
“Family search.”
“You did not know me.”
“Still family.”
The room got uncomfortably quiet.
Murray hated that kind of quiet.
He preferred arguments. Arguments offered exits.
Gus tucked the tag away.
“So I’m coming to the banquet.”
Murray snapped back into form.
“No.”
“Yep.”
“You cannot.”
“I can.”
“You are currently the disputed subject.”
“Then I should hear what everybody says.”
“That is not how formal review works.”
“Sounds convenient.”
Percival said, “Attendance requires invitation.”
Gus turned.
“You inviting me?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll attend without one.”
“That is unauthorized.”
“Arrest me.”
Nobody had a response because no accessory had ever established a prison.
Trixie hopped down beside Gus.
“I can make you formalwear.”
Murray spun.
“No.”
“I have ribbon.”
“No ribbon.”
“Jeweled clip.”
“No.”
“Tassels.”
“Absolutely not.”
Gus brightened.
“Tassels?”
Murray said, “Rule Thirty-Three: Disputed grandparents may not accessorize.”
Gus chuckled.
“You’re running out of numbers.”
“I have unlimited numbers.”
Trixie looked at him.
“That sentence may ruin your life.”
At eleven thirty, the costume workshop looked as though a diplomatic conference had been organized by things normally stored in sandwich bags.
Folded hand towels served as banquet tables.
Buttons served as plates despite there being no food.
A silver thimble held ceremonial spirit gum samples.
Percival had arranged three borrowed brushes, a hand mirror, and a row of combs as “ancestral regalia.”
Murray knew every object had come from Marjorie’s repair station.
He said nothing.
There were limits even to hypocrisy.
Gus arrived dressed by Trixie.
Murray felt pain.
A burgundy ribbon formed a tiny cravat beneath the beard’s upper backing.
A jeweled clip from the dead duke costume covered the bald spot.
Three gold tassels hung from one side.
He looked rich, dangerous, and capable of being banned from a wedding.
Murray stared.
“What have you done?”
Gus rotated.
“Class.”
“That is not class.”
“Ribbon.”
“Yes, I see it.”
“Dead duke jewel.”
“I see that too.”
“Tassels.”
“Three of them.”
“Odd numbers are elegant.”
“Who told you that?”
“Me.”
Trixie adjusted the clip.
“I tried less.”
“He wanted more.”
“I said formal.”
“He heard deceased casino owner.”
Gus looked pleased.
Murray turned away.
His speech waited beneath a folded collar.
STATEMENT ON MUSTACHE CLASSIFICATION IN THE EVENT OF UNFORTUNATE BEARD PRECEDENT.
Trixie had crossed out unfortunate.
Murray had written it back.
Lionel carried a counter-speech.
Percival had prepared ceremonial objections sorted by category.
His comb now had two missing teeth and one bent nearly sideways.
He handled it as though nothing had happened.
Murray approached him.
“There is a scheduling problem.”
Percival stiffened.
“We have no capacity for another problem.”
“The humans scheduled a last-minute costume check.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
Percival looked at the clock.
“During the banquet?”
“Yes.”
“Why were we not consulted?”
“They do not know we are alive.”
“That hardly excuses the lack of coordination.”
Murray decided not to explain secrecy to him.
Footsteps approached.
Every accessory froze.
The workshop door opened.
A human entered, grabbed a garment bag, muttered about crowns, and left.
The room moved again.
Trixie said, “Nineteen with interruptions.”
Lionel approached Murray.
“Beards object to assigned freeze positions.”
“They are safety positions.”
“They put beards beneath the table.”
“You are larger.”
“Give examples.”
“Examples of size?”
“Examples of beard-specific safety need.”
Murray looked at him.
Lionel looked back.
“I hate how much you enjoy this.”
“It’s the only pleasure discrimination gives me.”
Gus raised a tassel.
“I once stayed frozen on a bishop for twenty-three minutes.”
Murray said, “Why are you telling that now?”
“Banquet story.”
“The banquet has not started.”
“Warm-up.”
“What happened?”
“Human forgot he was wearing me. Went to the lobby.”
Trixie said, “Actually, keep going.”
“No.”
The clock reached midnight.
Percival climbed onto the pincushion.
“The Golden Whisker Banquet is convened.”
Footsteps sounded immediately in the corridor.
Trixie said, “Twenty.”
The banquet lasted seven minutes before procedure lost all structural integrity.
Percival began introductions.
“Percival, silver handlebar, chairman of the Golden Whisker Society, seventeen years of—”
The door opened.
Everyone froze.
A human grabbed thread and left.
“—seventeen years of distinguished service, admitted under pedigree classification—”
The door opened.
Freeze.
A different human searched for a belt.
Left.
“—classification A, bearer of the ceremonial comb—”
The door opened.
Freeze.
Marjorie found the belt the previous person had missed.
She muttered, “It was right there.”
The door closed.
Percival resumed.
“—and presiding officer.”
Lionel said, “Objection to classification A.”
“Introductions are not debatable.”
“Anything is debatable if you made it up.”
Murray stepped in.
“Rule Thirty-Seven: Procedural challenges are prohibited before adhesive tasting.”
Percival paused.
“Is that authentic?”
“Yes.”
Lionel asked, “Where is it written?”
“Oral tradition.”
Trixie whispered, “This will absolutely come back on you.”
Gus raised a tassel.
“When do we eat?”
“There is no food.”
“Then why is this a banquet?”
“Tradition.”
“Cheap tradition.”
Pedigree declarations began.
A waxed black mustache claimed association with The Importance of Being Earnest.
Trixie said it had been performed in a library basement.
The waxed mustache clarified that the library had excellent acoustics.
A white imperial described Napoleonic styling despite never appearing in a Napoleonic play.
Lionel asked whether resembling history counted as having history.
Percival ruled the question discourteous.
Murray waited.
His turn came.
Percival lifted the damaged comb.
“We now hear applicant Murray’s lineage declaration.”
Every accessory faced him.
Murray moved to the center.
“I wish to begin with a classification distinction.”
Lionel groaned.
“A mustache remains a mustache according to design, placement, intended theatrical function, and historical usage. Its identity is not altered by predecessor material.”
Lionel lifted a grievance.
“Objection.”
“Ground?”
“All of it.”
“Overruled,” Percival said.
Murray continued.
“The fact that certain manufacturing material may derive from a beard—”
“Grandpa,” Gus said.
“—does not alter category.”
“Grandpa beard.”
Murray turned.
“Could you not?”
“Proud grandpa beard.”
“Please stop improving it.”
Percival read from the hearing notes.
“Applicant previously described Gus as a family employee.”
“Withdrawn.”
“Ceremonial beard.”
“Withdrawn.”
“Distant textile associate.”
“Terminologically imperfect.”
“Possibly French.”
The banquet exploded.
Even the eyebrows laughed.
Gus shook hard enough to release glitter.
Murray raised his voice.
“That was exploratory.”
Trixie said, “You tried to deport his ancestry.”
“I did no such thing.”
Percival struck the table.
The comb bent further.
“We will proceed to physical evidence.”
Gus produced his tag half.
Trixie produced Murray’s matching archive strip.
They laid the pieces together.
BH-88.
The tear aligned.
Threads matched.
Serial matched.
The room went still.
Gus leaned down.
“My handsome little lip rug.”
Murray’s dignity died, revived, and died again.
“Never call me that.”
Lionel said, “Put it in the record.”
“There is no record.”
Lionel waved a grievance.
“There is now.”
Percival inspected the tag.
“Under accessory lineage custom, Gus is recognized as Murray’s direct predecessor.”
“Grandfather,” Lionel said.
Percival resisted.
Lionel waited.
“Grandfather.”
Gus whooped.
The workshop door slammed open.
Every accessory froze.
Marjorie rushed in.
“Where’s the big king beard?”
Nobody moved.
Gus lay beside the banquet table.
Marjorie spotted him.
“There.”
Murray wanted to scream.
Her hand descended.
Gus lifted.
His tassels swept across the table.
Buttons scattered.
The spirit gum thimble rolled.
A decorative ribbon caught around Percival’s comb.
The comb snagged deep in Gus’s curls.
Percival was yanked upward.
Only one silver curl remained visible.
The whole arrangement disappeared into Marjorie’s hand.
Gus whispered, “Unexpected.”
Percival hissed, “Get me out.”
“You’re hooked.”
“This is an official comb.”
“It’s in my armpit.”
“You do not have an armpit.”
“Then I don’t know where the hell you are.”
Marjorie carried them out.
The workshop door shut.
Murray looked at the ruined banquet.
Trixie looked at him.
Lionel climbed onto the edge.
“Rescue.”
Murray stared toward the stage.
His grandfather had been recognized for approximately six seconds before being kidnapped for work.
Percival had become physically embedded in beard ancestry.
There was no dignified version of this.
“Rule Forty,” Murray said, “all family disputes are suspended during adhesive emergencies.”
Lionel asked, “Authentic?”
“No.”
Trixie tilted.
Murray looked at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“You’re getting better.”
“At lying?”
“At useful lying.”
“That distinction matters.”
They ran.
The lead actor playing King Roderick stood in the wing with a crooked crown and visible panic.
Marjorie pressed Gus onto his chin.
Percival vanished into the beard.
Only the bent ceremonial comb stuck out.
Murray climbed the costume rack.
Trixie swung after him.
Lionel rallied three beards.
“Beard support ready.”
Murray looked down.
“Good.”
Lionel waited.
“What?”
“Say the whole thing.”
“I do not have time.”
“Then we lack morale.”
Murray ground his fibers.
“Good beard support.”
Lionel moved.
The actor’s entrance cue approached.
Onstage, a duchess shouted, “The treasury is empty!”
The director shouted, “King!”
Marjorie pressed Gus again.
One side lifted.
Murray saw it.
Adhesive failure.
He smelled the gum.
Sweet.
Gus whispered, “Told you.”
“This is not the time.”
“Sweet glue.”
“I know.”
“Told you.”
Percival’s muffled voice came from somewhere deep inside.
“My comb is caught.”
Murray climbed higher.
“Nobody cares about the comb.”
“I care.”
“You are currently lodged inside a beard.”
“Do not phrase it that way.”
The king stepped toward the entrance.
Gus’s corner lifted again.
Murray examined the quick-change station.
A duke’s sash hung nearby.
Pins.
A collar.
No fresh gum within reach.
“Trixie.”
“I see it.”
“The sash.”
She swung.
Murray looked at Lionel.
“Center support beneath the collar.”
Lionel stopped.
“Why center?”
“Gus says he can hold if we keep the middle fixed.”
“You’re taking beard advice?”
“Yes.”
The word came out easily.
Everyone noticed.
Murray did not let them enjoy it.
“Move.”
Lionel and the other beards moved.
Trixie hooked the duke’s sash and dragged it closer.
The king entered the stage.
Lights hit.
Heat rose immediately.
Gus whispered, “Worst part.”
Murray crawled along the actor’s costume seam.
Percival struggled.
“Stop moving,” Murray said.
“I am extracting my comb.”
“You are loosening Gus.”
“My comb is Society property.”
“You are Society property right now.”
“I reject that definition.”
“Reject quietly.”
Gus laughed.
The king boomed, “Who dares question my fiscal authority?”
A duke pointed.
“Your people starve!”
Murray pushed beneath the collar.
“Left side lifting.”
“Always did,” Gus whispered.
“Old repair?”
“Yep.”
“Can you hold through the turn?”
“Did Lear.”
Murray remembered the archive.
No fitting.
Twelve minutes before curtain.
Went on anyway.
“Use the same method.”
“Pressure center. Let the sides move.”
Murray adjusted.
“Lionel, center only.”
Lionel did.
Trixie reached the sash.
“Ready.”
Murray guided one end beneath Gus’s backing where the costume collar would hide it.
The king turned.
Gus peeled halfway.
The sash caught.
Lionel held the center.
Gus stayed attached.
The actor kept performing.
Nobody human noticed.
Murray felt something unfamiliar.
Not pride.
Pride was familiar.
This was respect, which was much more irritating because it had arrived without permission.
Gus whispered, “You’re good at this, little fuzz.”
“Do not become sentimental during emergency adhesive stabilization.”
“I said you’re good.”
“That is how it begins.”
The director shouted, “Hold!”
The actor stopped.
Marjorie rushed over.
“The beard’s slipping.”
Murray flattened himself.
Human fingers grabbed Gus.
“Quick change.”
The sash snapped loose.
Lionel lost his grip.
Trixie caught a hook.
Murray grabbed Gus’s backing.
Marjorie pulled.
Everything went airborne.
Gus detached.
Percival detached partially.
The comb did not.
The jeweled clip flew.
One tassel caught Murray.
Another caught Trixie.
A violent shake hit the deep fibers in Gus’s center.
Glitter erupted.
Not a puff.
A weather system.
Silver flecks filled the wing.
They covered curtains.
Costumes.
Lionel.
Trixie.
Murray.
Percival.
A foam turkey.
Two boots.
The duke sash.
Part of the painted castle.
Marjorie sneezed.
The king sneezed.
The director shouted, “Why is there glitter?”
Nobody had an answer.
Gus launched from Marjorie’s hand and landed in a laundry basket.
Percival came with him.
Murray hit Trixie.
Lionel fell across the sash.
Silence followed.
Trixie slowly stood.
She was entirely glittered.
She looked at Gus.
Percival stuck out of him at a forty-five-degree angle.
She looked at Murray.
“I have retired the scale.”
Murray nodded.
“Appropriate.”
From the basket came Percival’s voice.
“Get me out.”
Gus said, “Hold still.”
“I have been inside you for five minutes.”
“Could be worse.”
“How?”
“Rear beard of a two-headed troll.”
“I do not want the story.”
“You’re positioned great for it.”
Murray climbed into the basket and found the ceremonial comb.
It was hooked through three deep curls.
He worked it loose.
Percival emerged coated in glitter and wearing one gold tassel.
His comb had become nearly circular.
He held it with solemn authority.
Nobody mentioned its condition.
Murray looked at Gus.
“You knew exactly how to survive that turn.”
“Done it before.”
“Many times.”
“Every respectable role that requires itching.”
Murray adjusted one of Gus’s loose curls.
“Your left side is badly repaired.”
“Yep.”
“It should be reinforced.”
“Probably.”
“I will speak to Trixie.”
Gus went quiet.
Then he said, “That’s sweet.”
“It is maintenance.”
“Sure.”
“Do not make it family.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, little fuzz.”
Murray shoved him into the basket.
The Golden Whisker Banquet reconvened at two forty-three.
The hand-towel table was gone.
Buttons were everywhere.
One ceremonial adhesive sample had spilled into a box of snaps.
A human boot print crossed the main cloth.
The Society rebuilt proceedings on a piece of muslin.
Everyone glittered.
Percival glittered most.
He stood behind the muslin holding his destroyed comb.
“The Society will restore order.”
Lionel looked around.
“To what?”
Percival ignored him.
“We must resolve Gus’s classification and Murray’s application.”
Murray retrieved the hidden founding card.
Trixie brought Dot up from the basement.
Dot was furious.
“Archival materials require controlled handling.”
“You are evidence,” Murray said.
“Evidence still requires handling protocol.”
“We have no gloves.”
“You have no hands.”
“Exactly.”
Percival reached for her.
“Support lower-left corner.”
He adjusted.
“Do not bend.”
He straightened.
“Do not place near adhesive.”
He moved away from the spilled gum.
“Do not point using metal comb.”
Percival lowered the comb.
Trixie said, “I want her at every meeting.”
Murray stepped forward.
“I have a disclosure.”
Lionel said, “Here we go.”
“During archival review, I encountered a founding eligibility rule whose immediate relevance I assessed with excessive procedural caution.”
“You hid it,” Lionel said.
“That is reductive.”
“You put it behind a filing cabinet.”
“I secured it.”
“You concealed it.”
“I delayed release.”
“You lied.”
“I did not answer.”
“That is a lie with office supplies.”
Murray refused to be distracted.
“I concede that my custodial interpretation may have exceeded what was strictly necessary.”
Lionel stared.
“That is your apology?”
“It is an admission.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It is accurate.”
Gus nudged Trixie.
“That’s my grandson.”
Murray heard.
This time he let it go.
Percival read the founding rule.
His silver curls tightened.
“Eligibility for recognition shall derive from distinguished service to performance, including craftsmanship, longevity, adaptability, reliability, and contribution under theatrical necessity.”
Lionel looked at Gus.
“That’s him.”
Dot said, “Service record exceeds threshold in multiple categories.”
Gus adjusted his cravat.
“Damn right.”
Murray spoke.
“Thirty-eight years in active stock. Hundreds of performances. Multiple repairs. Emergency substitutions. Unusual role flexibility.”
“Yak,” Trixie added.
“We are not emphasizing yak.”
“Goat,” Lionel added.
“We are not emphasizing goat.”
“Rear beard,” Gus said.
“We are definitely not emphasizing rear beard.”
Percival looked trapped.
Murray waited.
The chairman finally said, “Gus qualifies for distinguished recognition.”
The beard drawer exploded in cheers.
A pencil mustache fainted into a pile of buttons.
Lionel produced a grievance declaring victory despite nobody having asked.
Gus hit Murray with one curl.
“You did it.”
“I corrected the rule.”
“You got me in.”
“You were technically already in.”
“Still counts.”
Percival raised his wrecked comb.
“There remains Murray’s application.”
Lionel immediately spoke.
“If ancestry matters as much as the Society has claimed for years, then Murray descends directly from one of the longest-serving recognized accessories in the Playhouse.”
Silence.
A waxed mustache turned toward Gus.
“How many performances?”
Dot supplied the number.
The waxed mustache shifted.
“I believe I may have beard relatives.”
Lionel snapped toward him.
“You called Gus chin furniture.”
“Affectionately.”
“You called beard lineage coarse.”
“I said textured.”
A white imperial spoke.
“My manufacturing family may include full facial ensembles.”
Lionel stared.
“You tried to ban elastic-backed guests last year.”
“That proposal addressed technical concerns.”
“Your technical concern was ‘they look cheap.’”
“Terminology evolves.”
A pair of sideburns announced a possible beard cousin.
An eyebrow claimed an uncle who was technically a goatee.
Lionel trembled with fury.
“You hypocritical lint.”
Percival banged the comb.
It made no sound.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
He set it down as if silence had been his goal.
A silver glitter fleck slid from his curl.
Percival noticed.
Everybody noticed him noticing.
He straightened.
“The chairman wishes to clarify that ceremonial glitter has historically signified distinguished endurance.”
Trixie said, “You hated glitter six hours ago.”
“Recent archival interpretation has broadened.”
“It came out of Gus.”
“Which supports its ancestral nature.”
“It supports him needing a wash.”
Gus shook himself.
More glitter came out.
Percival accepted the new coating with dignity.
“Ancient ancestral nature.”
Murray nearly objected.
Then stopped.
He had spent twelve years wanting pedigree.
He now possessed more pedigree than Percival knew what to do with, courtesy of a thirty-eight-year-old beard who had been a cabbage.
There were worse outcomes.
Probably.
“Murray’s elevated application is approved,” Percival said.
Murray lifted his ends.
“Classification?”
Percival hesitated.
“Distinguished direct lineage.”
“Through Gus?”
“Yes.”
Murray looked at his grandfather.
Gus looked back.
The old beard was battered, glitter-infested, badly repaired, absurdly dressed, and responsible for more theatrical mileage than anyone else in the room.
Murray adjusted his curl.
“Acceptable.”
Lionel shouted, “You spent all day denying him.”
“I revised my position based on evidence.”
“You revised it when the beard became prestigious.”
“Evidence and prestige developed simultaneously.”
Trixie laughed.
Gus wrapped a curl around Murray and pulled him close.
Murray tolerated it.
Three seconds.
Five.
Seven.
“Enough.”
“Little fuzz.”
“Do not abuse your new classification.”
Percival lifted the bent comb.
“As the evening’s highest-service newly recognized member, Gus is entitled to deliver a formal address.”
Murray turned.
“No.”
Gus climbed onto the thimble.
“Oh, I’ve got one.”
“No.”
“Starts with the troll.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good story.”
“We have heard it.”
“You heard the short version.”
Murray froze.
“There is a long version?”
“Course.”
“How long?”
“Depends whether I include the neck hinge.”
“You will not.”
“The rear head had a moisture problem.”
“No.”
“Actor kept turning too far left.”
“No.”
“One night my tassel—”
“You did not have tassels then.”
“Not wardrobe tassels.”
Murray recoiled.
“I do not want clarification.”
Gus puffed himself up.
Murray rushed forward.
“Rule Forty-One: No grandparent may recount theatrical incidents involving rear-mounted facial hair at a formal banquet.”
Gus considered him.
Then his fibers lifted.
“Rule whatever-you’re-up-to-now: grandfathers get to finish the embarrassing story.”
The room went silent.
Percival looked toward Murray.
Lionel looked toward Murray.
The waxed mustache nodded gravely.
Percival picked up the circular remains of his comb.
“Under established whisker precedent, oral rules carry traditional authority.”
Murray stared at him.
“You cannot possibly accept that.”
“You established the doctrine.”
Trixie settled beside Murray.
“I told you unlimited rules would turn on you.”
Murray glared.
Gus wrapped a heavy curl around him.
“So there I was, little fuzz, backward on the rear head of this troll, and the actor’s neck hinge jams during the wedding scene—”
Murray closed his curls.
His grandfather had finally become respectable.
Unfortunately, respectability had given the old bastard a microphone.