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Having a mustache and never smiling became a permanent component of my persona through the quaintly self-important decade of the seventies.

I had a mustache when I was 13.

Not to get too deep on shaving my mustache, but it was kind of symbolic of, 'This is a moment of liberation, a chance to reinvent yourself.' That's kind of what I did.

The mustache represented the old John; I didn't want to be that guy anymore, so I shaved it off. It was ritualistic in a way.

Nowadays, if you have a mustache, people look at you like you're crazy. But when I was growing up, I never saw my dad without a mustache.

I think I've become the go-to mustache man. It works in period pieces. Modern-day mustaches are probably creepy. But I get compliments - everyone's like, 'Wow, love the 'stache, dude.'

It was my mustache that landed jobs for me. In those silent-film days it was the mark of a villain. When I realized they had me pegged as a foreign nobleman type I began to live the part, too. I bought a pair of white spats, an ascot tie and a walking stick.

A mustache really defines your face. My dad had a mustache when I was growing up, and I can still remember when he shaved it, he looked like a completely different person.

The mustache - I was never happy with the fullness of it. I was a bit too young. Maybe I'll bring it back in my mid-thirties.

I will say, as a woman, when you put a mustache on, you find out a lot of things about yourself.