Electra Canales collected mustaches. Actual mustaches. No Pringles man twists or Fu Manchu callbacks to her own villainous high school dating heart. All of Electra’s gimmick-free ‘staches understated man’s infinite need for womanly affection, whether the latest actor portraying James Bond in Hollywood had two more films promised in his multi-year deal or twenty.
She had begun by simply cutting out magazine photos. After quickly moving on to destroying old yearbooks, Electra maxed out several camera memory cards on her new Sony Pro. She had most recently taken to screen-capturing D-rated French actors from the most obscure action movies she could find, all for personal profit.
Just what possessed any straight man to grow such a distinct facial feature without expecting at least one firefighter joke ten blocks away from the nearest karaoke bar “YMCA” cover? Then came free-forming adjectives like “dashing” and “distinguished” before Burt Reynolds weighed Alex Trebeck’s actual knowledge base concerning real life drug lords against his own stiff upper lip.
Electra just didn’t get it. She remained infatuated with the origins of magic marker lady drag more so than how Lionel Richie’s last new jack album compared to the razor-etched grace of any new age contemporary not named Babyface.
This of course was hard for most people to accept. Maybe she had been raped as a child by a ‘stache-toting neighbor named Ned on top of a moving zamborino. Maybe she hated ice hockey just as much as her absentee father but desperately longed to reach him in real time without actually picking up the phone when he called.
The truth was far simpler. Electra had never bothered to get herself. She never designed anything from scratch. Not the clothes on her back, not the itineraries to the spa dates she shared with her pet poodle, Milestone. Not even the promising studio album she had yet to cut despite her ungodly Latin singing voice.
Electra had nothing to hide either, at least until she became fully autonomous on moustache mountain. Once a local Army recruit came calling with an electric clipper in one hand and a barber school application in the other, the militant Linda Perry in commando cutoff shorts would tell her, “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
The men who fraternized Freddie Mercury lookalike conventions certainly had plenty to hide, but if anyone asked what had brought Electra out that night, she’d simply start ad-libbing over the extended intro of a Queen song she wouldn’t recognize until her true identity finally presented itself.
Someday, even her most loyal of fans would ask her to her face if she had rub-on eyebrows and learned to belly-dance from someone actually Hispanic. She’d just never long to go beyond narrowing the mystery in her own manscaping rights. At least until she found something intriguing about a twelve-year-old boy with a full grown faculty lounge knocker. A maturing child resembling her and not the other way around, at least as long as she acted as old as she looked in her first Best of cover arts photo.
Old enough, even if Electra “Hot Dish” Canales was always too busy fondling Tom Selleck’s legendary sneeze guard to ever touch her own greatness.