My very identity as a soldier came to an abrupt end. I'd been soldiering as long as I'd been shaving. Suddenly I'd been told I could no longer soldier, and it felt as though no one really cared if I ever shaved again.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
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.
I was a soldier in WWII. The last couple of months of the war I was actually in combat.
I remember when I was a private soldier. I remember the days when I was taken care of and when I was not taken care of.
The Marines was a fresh start - that is why they shave your head. I wish they would let you change your name.
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.
I remember the first time I put on the Army uniform. I just felt like a totally different person - I felt proud.
As a soldier, I survived World War I when most of my comrades did not.
I would have been a disastrous soldier.
At the senior prom for my Catholic boarding school, I was feeling manly, so I shaved, even though I didn't need to. Being inexperienced, I managed to slice a quarter-inch gash into my lower chin a half hour before I picked up my date.
Just because I was almost 62, I did not feel decrepit and felt I wasn't finished being a soldier yet.