la moustache

He crosses the corridor from his office into class with the macbook under his arm. He is sporting what we have already identified as the classic Monsieur H look: trendy rectangular frames, deep purple striped shirt, well-fitted dark gray jeans.

Unfortunately, it doesn't matter how cool he looks.

All we can look at is the moustache.

Monsieur H is the head of our programme and our primary lecturer. I took a liking to him during the application procedure, when he so promptly and soothingly answered my jittery e-mails. When I came to Brussels in May we chatted about the programme, career options and Montreal. He will most probably advise my thesis.

This semester we have three classes with him: Introduction à la critique, Adaptations, and L'oeuvre dramatique: sa structure et sa représentation. He is articulate, interesting and easy to follow. He deals succinctly with important theorists; illustrates everything he talks about with clips and photos; sends us zipping around Brussels to see shows and chat with actors and directors (two plays this week, two more next week); brings minds from around the world to share their thoughts with us (this year's guest lecturers include Daniela Amoroso from Brazil on dance, Biao from S. Paulo on ethnoscenography, Tueckyoung Kim from Korea on masks, and Shannon Jackson, head of the drama department at Berkeley, with a directing workshop).

For six hours a week, it is clear to us why Monsieur H is so well-liked by students, respected in the field, appreciated in the Brussels scene.

For six hours a week, we stare at the moustache.

Part of the fascination is the moustache itself. It is white, scrupulously groomed, exaggerated not in breadth but in length. It fills in the space under his nose, to his bottom lip.

This is the other part of the fascination: the utter absence of upper lip. I often sit in the first row, from the end of which he likes to gesticulate at the screen behind him as he lectures.

From this vantage point, I am treated to a perfect profile. While he talks about the rhythm of light in Peter Brooke's Hamlet, I think about the melody of the moustache. It wriggles to its own beat, now bristling over an invisibly pursed lip, now lifting with a particularly potent plosive.

It is becoming mythical, the moustache. When we meet former students, we share a laugh about it. When our classmate JK let his facial hair grow, we teased that Monsieur H had been the inspiration. In my mind, the moustache is to Monsieur H what long hair was to Sampson.

He just wouldn't -- couldn't -- be the same without it.