The 90s showcased barbed wire armbands and lower back tribal designs, but nothing quite captured the essence of the 00s like the pseudo-ironic finger mustache. While many fads from that era have faded into obscurity, the mustache Tattoo, affectionately dubbed the “fingerstache,” remains etched on the skin of thousands, if not millions, who embraced the trend.

During the aughts, a wave of ironic mustache fever swept across the United States, infecting nearly everyone in its path. From clothing to accessories, household items to novelty goods, the ubiquitous presence of big, curly mustaches was undeniable. These items, intended to provoke laughter, ranged from absurd to borderline nonsensical—a pint glass adorned with a mustache, a pacifier that gave infants the appearance of a 70s porn star, and even a three-foot wide steel mustache illuminated with glowing bulbs.

While the era of the fingerstache has largely passed, remnants of this trend can still be found, often marked with faded clearance stickers and relegated to the bottom shelves of discount stores. The Fingerstache Tattoo stands as a physical reminder of a time when mustache mania reigned supreme.

Legend has it that the fingerstache originated in 2003, courtesy of Columbus-based tattoo artist Giovani Faenza. In a 2006 interview, Faenza recounted the genesis of the idea, noting that it stemmed from a casual conversation among friends at his tattoo shop. The concept of a mustache tattooed on a finger seemed absurd yet innocuous, prompting one brave soul named Tom to volunteer as the inaugural recipient.

However, Tom’s decision to immortalize the fingerstache on his skin proved to be just the beginning. After sharing his tattoo on MySpace, the trend rapidly gained traction, spreading like wildfire across social media platforms such as Facebook, Tumblr, and Instagram. The fingerstache became a symbol of humor and camaraderie among young people, cementing its status as an iconic emblem of the aughts.

#fingerstache is still a thriving hashtag on Instagram even in 2020, surprising many with its enduring popularity. Intrigued by this, I embarked on a quest to understand if those who embraced the fingerstache trend in its heyday now harbored any regrets. To my surprise, I didn’t have to look far for answers.

Upon reaching out on social media, numerous colleagues eagerly pointed out that our own editor-in-chief, Derek Mead, sported a fingerstache tattoo. While they teased him about it, they did so affectionately, albeit daringly considering his authoritative position.

Curious about his decision to get the tattoo, I inquired with Mead. He recounted how, back in 2006 during his freshman year at UC Santa Barbara, a classmate pitched the idea, sparking his interest.

“It seemed clever and unique at the time,” he recalled, “and I figured, at least I wouldn’t have to see it all the time.”

As for the tattooing process itself, Mead shared a colorful tale of a drunken escapade in Baja California with friends. Amidst the chaos of the weekend, they stumbled upon a tattoo parlor in Rosarito, where Mead’s idea found enthusiastic support from his companions. Despite the inebriation, the painful experience left a lasting mark—albeit one that has faded over time but remains a subject of office banter.

Similarly, John Troeller, a 39-year-old tattoo artist from Fullerton, CA, initially found the fingerstache concept intriguing when he saw it on another tattooist in 2005. He too decided to adorn his heavily tattooed hands with the design. However, as the trend gained mainstream traction, Troeller grew disillusioned, questioning why individuals with little tattooing experience were rushing to get hand tattoos.

“I did a few for some people, but then I had to stop. It just seemed ridiculous,” he reflected.

In essence, while the allure of the fingerstache once captivated many, its lasting legacy has prompted mixed feelings among those who proudly wore it during its peak.

Troeller expressed more than just fatigue with the fingerstache trend; he explained that it conflicted with the tattoo artist’s code of ethics, which discourages hand or neck tattoos for individuals without significant prior tattooing experience on less visible parts of their body. Consequently, when individuals lacking extensive tattoo coverage sought fingerstache tattoos, Troeller turned them away, though he acknowledged they likely found another artist willing to oblige.

Keith Sexton, on the other hand, embraced the fingerstache in 2012, well into the trend’s cultural zenith, as part of his role at Movember, a nonprofit supporting men’s health. Getting it done in just 90 seconds at a Movember event, Sexton’s commitment to the cause outweighed any potential regrets, despite the tattoo’s eventual fading.

For Mead, initial regrets gave way to acceptance, with the tattoo even fostering a playful rivalry with his father over facial hair. While acknowledging the trend’s saturation and subsequent loss of charm, Mead finds solace in the amusement it brings to children in his circle.

As for Troeller, he chose a more tongue-in-cheek approach to commemorate the fingerstache phenomenon by adding “exp. in ’05 stupid” to his tattoo, embracing the whimsical nature of the trend’s rise and fall.

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