Somehow, despite the fact that my ideas are rarely ever rational (for examples, see: “I should randomly move to England!” “Gatsby-themed party on Cinco de Mayo, y’all!” and “Michelle Trachtenberg and Amanda Bynes are really the same person!”), I convinced myself that one of them was genius.

Which one?

The one where my friends invite me to their mustache-themed party and instead of buying a stick-on ’stache, I decide to make my mustache out of real human hair. Specifically, out of hair that was, at the time, still attached to my head.

Yeah, basically, I gave myself bangs, saved the trimmings, put them on double-sided tape, then proceeded to stick this tape to my face.

Notice how my mustache DOES NOT LOOK FAKE? Yeah, that’s why.

See, the thing was, when the party ended, I peeled off my mustache, stuck it in my coat pocket, and got a cab home. And then I promptly forgot about it. Fast forward to this weekend.

Due to a massive mouse issue in my flat, I’d decided to move. And so, after putting down a deposit on a new place, I was standing in the Chalk Farm tube station, wearing a nice, business casual outfit (which was meant to convey the impression that I would be a rational, capable flatmate who did not, for example, keep her body wash in the fridge or harbor ambitions to have loud sex in every room in the flat), when I reached into my pocket and wondered what the heck that could be.

And I pulled out a lump of what was, quite obviously, my own hair with a piece of tape stuck to it.

I quickly put it back into my coat pocket and tried to pretend that I was very interested in the map of the Northern Line, but this one girl was totally giving me the hairy (ha!) eyeball. She was clearly wondering why a woman in a pinstripe button down would take a wad of human hair out of her coat pocket on the train platform on a nice, sunny Saturday afternoon.

To this woman, I apologize. I did not mean to upset you with my mustache. These things just sort of happen. And I really, really hope that we are not going to be neighbors who wind up standing on this very platform every Saturday afternoon, purposefully at opposite ends.