My Mother Would Like A Moustache

‘My mother would like a moustache,’ said the girl. She was speaking in French and had braces on her teeth.
'Quoi? Pardon?’ I said.
‘My mother would like a moustache,’ she repeated. I looked back and could see her mother smiling from the doorway of the café.
Then I remembered that I was wearing a fake moustache. We were all wearing fake moustaches, all eleven of us, as we sat around the table drinking beer. One of us was also wearing a wig and a pink tutu. Given this, her question didn’t seem so bizarre after all. We gave her a packet of spare ‘taches and she went back to her mother to try them on.
We had descended on this sleepy French village to play boules. We had appeared like bandits out of the surrounding hills, all moustachioed up, to raid their petanque square and drink their beer. Soon we would move on, to eat good food, drink fine wine, and continue celebrating our friend’s upcoming marriage. Burial of the life of a young man they call stag celebrations in French. This young man I’ve known since I can remember anything, and I was here not to bury but to praise him. Love finally caught up with him and here he now was with a moustache, a wig and a tutu.
The girl reappeared with her mother; they were both now wearing moustaches. Her mother owned the café. We took photos and drank and laughed and cheered.