English Version | Who's afraid of the Portuguese mustache?

The concept of the Portuguese mustache is fundamental to Portuguese culture. When it came up on the occasion of this issue dedicated to Portugal, I confess that, selfishly, I thought only of my mustache. It's my source of undeniable pride, the centerpiece of my face, and I take care of it carefully every day. Almost immediately, I conjured up hundreds of arguments, all competing for the edification of Portuguese genetics. I wanted to affect modesty, perhaps even complain about the hassle of having to trim my mustache every other day so that it doesn't cover my mouth. Only after more time than I'd like to admit did it occur to me that, despite my follicular ego, the myth of the Portuguese moustache has little to do with me, but rather with the curse of the female buzzard, a plague that has haunted Portuguese women for centuries. Accused of not shaving their moustaches, the female population is haunted by any measly shadow above their lips. But where does this malicious myth come from? Well, like all historical facts that are based on sources as weak as rumors, the answers vary. However, most seem content to make the British the scapegoat. According to the story being told online (yes, story with a small h), the myth of Portuguese women's mustaches originates from the jealousy that the women of the English court felt towards D. Catarina de Bragança, the Portuguese queen who married King Charles II of England in 1662. The culmination of this bad-mouthing was catalyzed by the queen's appearance. Her dark skin, or at least tanned in comparison to the native women of the rainy country, stimulated suspicions that the shadow above her lips had a hairy consistency. Yes, apparently the thanks given to the creator of the five o'clock tea tradition was a cup of xenophobia. The origin of the myth is debatable, but its perpetuation is not difficult to understand. Like any other form of ridicule, the notion that Portuguese women are genetically prone to growing facial hair is just a metaphor for the image of Portugal as a rural and primitive country.

If we're talking about jokes made at the expense of Portugal, it would be sinful to ignore Love Actually (2003). The romantic comedy is more than a Christmas classic, it's one of the few occasions when Portuguese culture has reached the scale of a worldwide blockbuster. But even if we don't want to be poor and ungrateful, the portrait of the Portuguese is anything but favorable. From commenting on the mustache of the stunning Lúcia Moniz to the false tradition of greeting strangers with kisses on the mouth, the whole of Portugal is likened to a remote village. Apart from the iconic Christmas movie, mentions of the Portuguese mustache in the media are not easy to find. A preliminary search reveals only protests against the stereotype, with entire pages dedicated to arguing that, “contrary to what is assumed by the international community, Portuguese women don't have the genes to grow a mustache.” The Portuguese population, historically given to good manners, echoes arguments of injustice back and forth. These results are, however, limited to searches in Portuguese, so once curiosity convinces us to switch languages to universal English, the products vary significantly. Testimonials on Reddit are just as fervent, but fewer (we suspect they're just the same Portuguese voices only translated). Nowadays, the public relations department of Portuguese women is much more efficient. On social media, particularly on TikTok, a Portuguese girl is a desirable trend. Popularized at the end of last year, a #PortugueseGirl is synonymous with colorful patterned pants, baggy shirts and “ugly” shoes (to be clear, ugly is used here as a synonym for chic). Although the fantasy sold internationally is desirable, the fact is that, in Portugal, the same woman would be classified as a beta (a term used in the most affectionate way possible). But although she's not lacking in colorful ballerinas and bulky purses, the heavy shadow on her upper lip is absent.

We don't even need to go that far. We don't feel the need to defend ourselves as a nation against accusations that seek to demean the female gender. In 2024, what's wrong with women choosing to have facial hair? What's so wrong with a mustache? Let's not let the liberation of the female body from social expectations be restricted to body hair. From armpits to legs, female hair is only accepted when it can be hidden. Perhaps a mustache, a central element of a person's face, is too revolutionary a manifesto, a threat to patriarchal stability. When you think of women brave enough to proudly assume their facial hair, few names come to mind other than Frida Kahlo who, in addition to her iconic monocle, also sported a splendid buzzard. And although the Mexi-Cana turned her sorrow into an artistic expression worthy of Portuguese fado, the fact remains that there is no Portuguese celebrity with the same cojones as Khalo. Of course, the absence is only felt in the media because, growing up in Ribatejo, I had no shortage of materializations of the myth. In fact, it was so common among women that it took me a while to understand that it wasn't “normal.” At the, as my grandmother still calls it, “little school,” assistants, teachers and even the mothers of many of my classmates had a slight shadow over their upper lip. There was one mother in particular, let's call her Betinha, who had a set of cheeks and sideburns that, for a pubescent boy, was the source of an incredible amount of envy. In general, Betinha was an incredible woman. Even at an advanced age, she refused to refer to herself in the first person, always addressing herself in the third person with the self-styled nickname of “the girl”. “The girl went for a coffee yesterday and you don't even know who she met.” “The girl was so unlucky yesterday that she stepped in a puddle.” Betinha's linguistic idiosyncrasies are something I'd like to revisit as an adult; her originality is just a distant dream for most writers. Apart from the fact that she treated herself like the Queen of England, Betinha was an extremely nice woman, always ready to offer a kind word. Although my admiration for the lady was intact after so many years, the dissolution of the charm of her facial hair was diligent. Evil looks and venomous tongues, also typical of small Portuguese villages, broke my admiration. After the tragic loss, every time I saw Betinha I had the same thought: “Why keep the mustache?” Surely she was aware of the wickedness of others, as small-town gossip was heard on every street corner and alleyway. The price of a razor, or perhaps even wax for hair removal, seems cheap if it appeases the pernicious voices. The sacrifice of childish innocence had the reward of thoughtful discernment. Perhaps Betinha and D. Catarina de Bragança are not so far apart. Like the monarch, the lovely lady was confronted with rumors and, unperturbed by ignorant malice, felt no need to change her physical appearance. This may be the secret of the Portuguese buço: a blessing felt only by those who are proud of their mustache, regardless of gender or the opinion of others. 

Translated from the original in Vogue Portugal's "Portugal With Love" Issue, published June 2024. Full stories and credits in the print issue.