Dear Ponkleton,

I received your telegram just as I was about to nibble on another one of my exquisite afternoon biscuits (or exquiscuits, as I like to call them), but your request gave me no other choice but to ask Cieco to serve them to the hounds. If there ever was a man who knows the importance of a man’s whiskers, it is I, so I will gladly attempt to help you any way I can.

Just like most gentlemen in this country, I spent the first years of adulthood mending my fine hairs with regretfully rudimentary shaving equipment at home. It took years until I found a reasonable barber to do the work for me, which as you well know caused quite a sensation at Monty’s party that year! But that was entirely due to the splendid and precise hand of the late Albertoni, barber. You might recall he died in a very unfortunate shaving accident, the one with the high-speed motorbike, cream tabby exotic and pair of left-hand scissors on the cliffs of Napoli (dreadful business, that). I was utterly crushed when I heard of his demise, as I knew it could very well mean the ruin of my (and my moustache’s) flawless reputation. For days I remained indoors and hid my whiskers from the public. But a modest, and highly implausible, proposal from the Dalai Lama quickly rejuvenated me, so I packed my bags and moved to Tibet to learn the true art of shaving from the Buddhist monks.

I entered the temple a young and naïve man, convinced that I knew the ways and hazards of the world, but it only took me moments to realize that there are places a gentleman’s mind cannot possibly reach unless he fully opens himself to the will and spirit of his moustache. For several months I sat in meditation, listening carefully to whatever I could grasp from the depths of my moustache chakra. And on the seventh day of the seventh month, sitting in deep meditation beneath a fig tree, I finally understood the very meaning of life, the universe and the art of maintaining one’s proudest hairs. To my regret, I somehow managed to forget the first two insights, but I do have a small memory of it somehow involving a smallish blue-coloured rodent inside a pot of jam…

Anyhow, I returned to England a changed man, not only knowledgeable in the culture of Tibet and various martial arts, but I had also become a guru, learned in the ways of how to achieve full moustache potential. It’s quite simple, really. Just use a nice pair of scissors, some decent organic wax and a large dose of patience. With good faith, you’ll have a moustache right under your nose before you even know it!

Good luck and kah-leh phe,

Boyling