Cruising around the Movember website in search of publishing lads who are raising charitable funds toward men's health by racing to grow a moustache by month's end, I stumbled across the powerhouse team of writers Michael Redhill, Michael Winter, Lawrence Hill, Adam Sol, David Seymour and Michael Healey. They call themselves "The Cat's Moustache" and are joined by a few Mo' Sistas, women who support men who participate in Movember.

Jack Layton, Vincent Price, Tom Selleck and Invisible Publishing's Robbie MacGregor aside, I've never been a huge fan of moustaches. And as marathon efforts go, it's easy to think that there's nothing particularly athletic about growing in naturally-occurring facial hair. But as I've watched these writers post images of their upper lips disappearing behind sparse strands, walrus tusks or the rad Winnfield seen pictured at left—at the peak of publishing's most visible season, no less—I've anthropomorphized each one, coming to love them. You can do it, lil' [insert pet name here]! And I'd be lying if I hadn't given serious thought to what my own moustache would look like. (I expect something in the variety of Orlando Bloom.)

So I got in touch with Team Cat's Moustache to ask the mouthpieces to give voice to his thoughts on grooming and participating in Movember. In true charitable form, not one wasted a moment's time getting back to me. Please do visit the team page and pledge your donation!

(Stay tuned to the end of this post for details for how you can enter a contest presented by Nimbus Publishing!)

Julie Wilson: Do you remember your first moustache?

Michael Redhill: Indeed, I do. At first I was traumatized: for my twelfth birthday I got a hardcover Mickey Mouse comic compendium and an electric shaver, which made me cry. I told my parents I was too young to shave; my father ran his finger over my upper lip and said, "Not if you got one of those." Three years later, I grew a moustache and a beard at the age of fifteen. Because I could. One day, after visiting Bayview Village with my mother to buy shoes, one of her friends called her up to ask her if she was having an affair with the man she'd spotted her holding hands with outside of Three Little Pigs.

Michael Winter: I've never grown a moustache. But my brother has had one since he was sixteen. I remember a summer, when I was very young, when I helped my father build a cabin. And my father, for the first time in his life, did not shave. That was quite something, to see my father's face like that.

Lawrence Hill: THIS IS IT.

Adam Sol: I remember my chin and cheek growths much more—I've never been particularly strong in the moustache department. This can be a big deal for adolescent boys, as you can probably guess. But I could compensate with hairy legs, cheeks, and forearms, so I wasn't damaged irrevocably by my inability to grow anything on my lip.

David Seymour: Yes, I do. If memory serves, it began to sprout in urgent teenage fashion around the time I wrote my first poem. Both were atrocious, patchy things, unevenly wrought. Both were wispy derivatives of admired predecessors, and neither achieved their mutually desired effect which was, well, to get girls to dig me.

Julie Wilson: Among your teammates, which moustache do you covet or perhaps fear most?

Michael Redhill: Well, I admire them all, since they're putting their spouses/children/mothers through a scary month. But in all honesty, I'm pretty sure I'm going to buy David Seymour a Harley.

Michael Winter: I covet David Seymour's moustache. I fear Michael Redhill's. I admire the royalties Lawrence Hill's moustache seems to rake in.

Lawrence Hill: I fear mine because it is the ugliest.

Adam Sol: Michael Redhill is a scary beast.

David Seymour: While I applaud Michael Redhill's porn merchant stylings, and while Adam Sol's circa early 19th century is certainly enviable, I think Michael Winter's growth is to be most feared. It's like a quotidian character in one of his novels; barely noticeable though exerting, ultimately, a profound and possibly sinister influence on the narrative of the rest of our lives. When all is said and done, though, Lawrence Hill's moustache is money.

Julie Wilson: As a visible marker for men's health, a moustache is something most men can take for granted, but there's something vulnerable in the gesture, drawing noticeable attention to your face whether it's to reveal your upper lip for the first time or to cloak it in something foreign. Have you gained any insight into how you construct your daily appearance? Do you feel self-conscious at all?

Michael Redhill: Excellent question. The moustache is a shibboleth in November, and you get and give knowing smiles to other guys who have lip-hairs about the same length as your own. I've loved the brief little vulnerable but silent exchanges I've been having with men all month. And guys don't tend to do stuff like this—we wear pink ribbons and run in the 5k's for women, but this is really the only thing I can think of that's just about guys and their bodies. I started the team as a lark, but it's provoked some real thinking about health and well-being and I think the people who started this thing, and everyone who participates in it, deserve kudos.

Michael Winter: I've come to realize that, to groom a moustache—to keep on top of it, so to speak—requires some effort and style and attention and, possibly, tools (barber scissors?). I've thought of the donning of a moustache as a decision not to shave. To relax from the taking care of the lawn of the face. Far from it, a moustache is like maintaining a fickle bonzai tree in the back corner of an indifferent garden.

Lawrence Hill: YES, far more self conscious than since my teenage years, and that was centuries ago. It feels bizarre to construct an appearance for my face. For the first decades of my life I have basically left my face alone and let it stand or fall on its own merits and defects.

Adam Sol: Everybody who's seen me thinks it is a horrible, ugly thing, and that I look like someone who shouldn't be allowed near children. But everybody also knows it's for a good cause, so there's this bizarre "Ewyuck, awwhownice" combo effect. My wife thinks that it's all some sort of conspiracy against wives and girlfriends everywhere, and I'm inclined to agree. So yes, I am very self-conscious about it. I tend to grow a beard for a bit in the winter anyway, so some regular experimentation/alteration is pretty normal for me. Otherwise, I'd find my face pretty boring, keeping it the same all year.

David Seymour: Most days, I forget I have a face. Sure, there's hair on top of something, but not much more than the force of a thought. I spend the day touching said 'face' with 'hands' I've also forgotten, and when someone sarcastically compliments my mustache I am unsure who they are addressing. I usually wear a beard and so shaving, or manicuring with a razor blade at least, was something of an awakening. Coincidentally, I've become obsessed with the wiry hairs appearing in my ears, and regardless of the company or conversation feel they've begun to speak on my behalf. They're full of platitudes.

Julie Wilson: This Movember, are you thinking of any particular man or men in your life?

Michael Redhill: I'm doing this for my father, who suffers from Alzheimers, my kids, who deserve to be less scared, and for all my fellow diabetes sufferers.

Lawrence Hill: My brother, Dan, has just been diagnosed with prostate cancer and will soon undergo a radical prostatectomy. I sure hope he beats it.

Adam Sol: Not connected to prostate cancer, per se, but both of my grandfathers wore moustaches, so there's a bit of a gesture back to them. My 92 year-old grandmother is the only person who has told me that she likes the look of a moustache, so there's some moral support there that connects me with men in my life who are now gone.

David Seymour: My father wore a moustache for the greater part of his life, until I was in my mid-thirties. Though he hasn't had prostate cancer he's suffered through enough to warrant great respect for his determination in the face of adversity. Also, a dear friend recently told me that her father almost lost his life to prostate cancer, and I've been thinking of him, too, through the ridiculousness of my own effort. So, to fathers. And brothers.

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CONTEST: Nimbus Publishing & Vagrant Press got on the Movember bandwagon early by participating in a hockey tournament earlier this fall captained by debut author Jamie Fitzpatrick—read Jamie's guest post "Hockey Bums and Hockey Novels"—and made up of editors from Nimbus Publishing & Vagrant Press along with Josh Brown of The Antigonish Review and Whitney Moran of Arts East Magazine. Now they're offering a Prize Package exclusive to Canadian Bookshelf members. Head over to our Facebook page for details on how to be entered for your chance to win a signed hockey jersey and book bundle!