True confession: When I was 17, I did something that a lot of guys were doing in the '70s. I thought it would make me look "cool'' and more adult. But that's no excuse.

No, I'm not talking about tattoos, drugs or unsolved felonies that should be reported to 1-800-VICE SQUAD. I'm talking about a mustache. A cookie duster. In my case, a fool-man-chu.

I grew it to impress girls and buy beer. Let's just say it worked better for the beer. About one in 300 tries, I could pass for a college student and walk out with a six-pack.

I'd stroll in like Mr. Hipster and put the beer and the money on the counter. At the first mention of "I.D.,'' I would put on a dismayed, alarmed look, slap my back pocket and say, "Dang, I left my wallet on my dresser. I'll be right back.'' Then I'd scoop up the cash and run for the door as if my Levis were on fire.

I thought it was entirely original. It was not. It's so common, there's even a word for it. I think they call it a "crime'' these days, since the Mothers Against Drunk Driving jihad has made "minor in possession'' a federal crime slightly more serious than terrorism.

But I had more mustache and less brains than my friends, so I was always nominated to try to buy. Besides, the other guys couldn't handle getting told, "Get outta here, punk, before I call the cops.'' They'd fall apart under pressure and come out in more pieces than a Lego man taped to a cherry bomb.

Meanwhile, the mustache kind of grew on me. For about three decades. Then one day I woke up and looked in the mirror in horror. I realized the assistant principal was right: A mustache sounds innocent, but it's the gateway drug of facial hair. Pretty soon, it spreads and you're doing the hard stuff - goatees, Johnny Cash sideburns, even the full Moses.

Then one morning you wake up looking like an orthodox Hassidic Amish Mountain Man.

I mowed my beard more than the lawn, and I still looked like the last living member of the Grateful Dead.

So on vacation this year, I did an extreme makeover with a 79-cent disposable razor. It taught me a lot. Such as:

• Wow, razors have improved in 30 years. The modern ones with 28 rows of blades like shark's teeth do a lot less damage than the double-edged psycho slashers we used to jokingly call "safety razors.'' The last time I shaved in high school, I used so much toilet paper to stop the bleeding it looked as if I'd been picking cotton with my lips.

• And those cutting-edge razors are pretty amazing considering we nearly drove Gillette and Schick into bankruptcy in the 1970s. What was up with that? It was like a whole generation was baptized in Miracle-Gro.

• For me, the Barney Miller look is so disco. It's like being trapped in a time warp where old guys who can't let go of the past still argue about Vietnam. No, wait, that's the Kerry campaign.

• And here's the best part: Appearance is way overrated. We all secretly obsess about how we look and we believe other people notice and actually care. But here's a pleasant surprise: You can drill a coat-hook through your nose and hang your car keys on it, dye your hair tennis-ball yellow and wear a Hefty bag to work, and most people will say, "Did you get new glasses?''

I hardly recognized my own face in a mirror, but less than 10 percent of my friends noticed. Even some members of my own family looked at me sideways like I might be Stepford Pete, but they didn't say a word.

That's probably a good thing.

E-mail pbronson@enquirer.com or call 768-8301.