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There is an ugly rumor circulating about the return of the 1970s mustache-wearing male finding his way to the 21st century. Is this a backlash to the metrosexual era? Is this a way for the "regular guy" to reclaim his masculinity? Is this a way of making food stuck to a man's face acceptable?

As a single woman, I strongly object to this horrific trend.

I'm not going to throw around careless accusations against facial hair. That just wouldn't be right. Rather, my approach will be fair and balanced. You know, the reporting style made famous by Fox News.

For starters, the mustache reminds me of 1970s porn. As a kid, I wasn't always able to recognize the vital body parts through the scrambled Playboy Channel, but I could always tell if the man was wearing a mustache. Not a sexy scene, my friends.

Sticking with the 1970s theme, my father sported a mustache back then, and I don't want to date a man that resembles him. That's taking the Father Complex theory way too far.

Most importantly, I have very sensitive skin. In fact, so sensitive that I once went out on a date with a man that had facial hair and after three hours of lip smacking, my skin became so irritated that I developed a rash. Sure, you can make the argument that the rash was due to the marathon-long make-out session, not the mustache per se, but this isn't a time to be logical. Let's keep the focus of this post where it belongs, on the ill-conceived return of the mustache.

I'm not prejudiced; I'm against all mustaches.

Pencil mustache? No way. It reminds me of John Waters.

The toothbrush? Um, no. Charlie Chaplin donned that one for a reason: it's funny-looking.

Horseshoe-style mustache? Nice try. Hulk Hogan can get away with it is because wrestlers are cartoon-like.

Magnum, P. I. mustache? Oh, now you're playing dirty (I like that), but chances are you don't look like Tom Selleck. Psssssst. If you share his rugged good looks, e-mail me your digits.

Guys, take it from me. I won't steer you wrong. There is a reason the mustache trend died a slow death. Here's a hint: men aren't supposed to be walking buffets, able to select from an assortment of late-night snacks trapped in their hippielips.

I'm just sayin'.