The Minneapolis Tribune describes a phenomenon that is probably familiar to many engineering students today: a charming and misguided strategy to attract the opposite sex.
Notoriety Won By a Hair
Sophomore Engineers at Univer- sity Seek to Earn Popularity by Growing Mustaches
The co-eds of the university are taking issue with some of the men on the campus as to what constitutes popularity in the feminine sense of the word. The Shovel society, composed of men from the Mechanic Arts college, have felt for some time that they were not as prominent socially as they should be and so a few of the sophomore civil engineers have instituted a new idea, guaranteed to arrest the attention of the illusive co-ed.
Signs of this impending change, which is to herald the coming of the new social lions on the campus, were noticed a few days ago when some of the engineers appeared in class with a phantom growth of bristles on their upper lips, which were displayed by their proud owners as "mustaches." In speaking of this new "shadow display," as the venture is commonly called, one of its adherents said: "At the last meeting of the society it was resolved that we grow mustaches, as we have always tried to be original. We proved our originality by the hats we wore the first of the year, and we hope this will prove as great a delight to the campus as it has to us."
The co-ed idea of popularity does not encourage such demonstrations and one girl said the man who courted popularity by such a route was on the wrong road. "A bald head is a dispensation of Providence, but a mustache is a man's own fault," one of the co-eds said. "The men are running their heads into a noose if they think we like mustaches, but I guess they will soon find out what our attitude in the matter really is."
Facial hair was unknown among members of the University of Minnesota's Engineers Society in 1905-06. (Image courtesy mnhs.org)
The women of Sanford Hall broke out the good china and tiny teapots and for a party in about 1910. (Image courtesy mnhs.org)
Sample Minnesota newspaper articles, photos and ads dating back more than 140 years. Fresh items are posted weekly. Go here for tips on how to track down old newspaper articles on your own. Follow the blog on Twitter. Or check out "Minnesota Mysteries," a new book based on the blog.
Email your questions or suggestions to Ben Welter.
A link between brain damage and anti-social behavior has been well-documented. It's unclear how well-documented the link was in 1920, when a court sent a robbery suspect to a St. Paul hospital for a bit of cranial surgery to cure his "criminal tendencies." Did it work? There's no mention of the suspect in subsequent issues of the Minneapolis Tribune, and no record of a Nobel prize for the surgeon.
Through protests and shareholder engagement, the Honeywell Project (1968-1990) sought to persuade Honeywell Inc. to start beating cluster bombs into plowshares. Molly Ivins, then a reporter for the Minneapolis Tribune, was on the scene when Jerry Rubin, one of the Chicago Seven, joined peace activist Marv Davidov and poet Robert Bly to lead the charge in Minnesota in April 1970.
Michael Welters, an old and highly respected resident of Chanhassen, was struck and instantly killed by a work train on the C M & St. P. road, west of the village of Chanhassen, about five o'clock Saturday afternoon, November 2, 1912. The old gentleman was on his way home from the village, and was walking along the tracks, and as he has been partly deaf for some time, it is supposed he did not hear the oncoming train in time to escape being hit.
In a convoy of six jeeps accompanied by a police escort, RCA Victor's Television Caravan rolled into Minneapolis in October 1947. Several hundred spectators packed the Donaldson's department store on Nicollet Avenue to see demonstrations of the new technology. The next year, KSTP became the first TV station in Minnesota to broadcast regularly, beaming 12 to 14 hours of programming a week to about 2,500 television sets in the metro area.
The syndicated Mary Haworth advice column added color and spark to the dull society pages of the Minneapolis Morning Tribune during the war years. Haworth (pronounced hay-worth) was the "slender, well-tailored, attractive" Elizabeth Young of the Washington Post. Hundreds of letters a week poured into her burlap-screened nook in the Post newsroom.