Dear Tom:

You didn't know me in my younger days, and it's just as well. I was cursed with a baby face, even as a Staff NCO. I generally managed to live with it, but occasionally it would tear at my pride.

For example, in a Washington, D.C. club, I sat there getting smashed with some Marine buddies. This joint had the old tradition of a scantily-clad cigarette girl with a tray of tobacco products, walking about the place saying, "Cigars, cigarettes."

I fell in love with her, and would make comments of amorous intent each time she passed our table. On one swing by our table, I made a proposal which wasn't really indecent. She smiled and said, "Cigars, cigarettes," and then looking me fully in the eyes, "lollipops."

In a meeting of Staff NCOs in Korea, the old man was discussing the epidemic of moustaches which had spread throughout the battalion. I sported my first moustache, and was quite proud of it. The old man concluded his comments on that topic by saying, "Mind you now. I have nothing against a well-groomed moustache. So if it is your desire to have one, and" - at this point, looking me squarely in the eyes - "provided you're old enough to grow one, have at it."

I shaved it off that night.