I don’t want to give lip service to elections, one of which is coming up in the fall, but I recently won a contest by a vote so overwhelming that it amounted to much more than a whisker.

That’s why, thanks to the support of my grandchildren, who are not too young to have cast ballots, I am keeping my mustache.

The issue came up when my wife, Sue, the very person who encouraged me to grow a mustache, said that after four and a half decades, I should think about shaving it off.

“It might make you look younger,” she said.

“I already look young because I’m immature,” I replied. “And in case you have forgotten, it’s the 45th anniversary of my mustache.”

In 1979, the year after Sue and I got married, I had surgery to repair a deviated septum. Considering the prominence of my proboscis, I’m surprised the doctor didn’t use dynamite.

Anyway, after the operation, my tender nose and naked upper lip were covered in so many bandages that I looked like a mummy, even though I was not yet a daddy.

By the time the coverings came off, I sported a full chevron mustache, which did not, unfortunately, get me a discount at Chevron gas stations.

“I like it!” Sue said.

I liked it, too, especially since it put me in the company of my three mustache heroes: Groucho Marx, Mark Twain and my late grandmother.

So I kept the lip rug, which, I have been told by people with astigmatism, makes me look like Tom Selleck, minus the talent, charisma and money. Still, it has brought me fame, if not fortune.

My greatest accolade came in 2010, when I finished second in the Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American of the Year Contest.

Thanks to the support of people who probably ended up with RSI (Repetitive ’Stache Injury), I got 85,000 votes in the national competition.

I lost (by a hair, naturally) to a Florida firefighter named Brian Sheets. But I beat out such alleged celebrities as major league pitcher Carl Pavano, Washington Post columnist Gene Weingarten and entertainer Brandon Wardell, who was endorsed by model and actress Brooke Shields.

I, of course, was endorsed by Sue.

Five years ago, to mark the 40th anniversary of my guy growth, I was named Mustached American of the Day. This honor was bestowed upon me by the American Mustache Institute, an organization dedicated to fighting discrimination against people with facial hair.

According to AMI president Adam Causgrove, I also was eligible to be inducted into the International Mustache Hall of Fame, whose members include Theodore Roosevelt, Salvador Dali and Burt Reynolds.

“You don’t have to be dead to get in,” Causgrove assured me.

I’m still waiting (to get in, that is). And I was ready to celebrate the 45th anniversary of my mustache — with beer, cake and Just for Men — when Sue said I should shave it off.

That’s when I put the matter to a vote.

We were visiting our three youngest grandchildren — a boy, 7, and his twin siblings, a girl and a boy, almost 5 — when I called for a referendum.

“Who thinks I should keep my mustache?” I asked.

The kids, who have never seen me without it, all raised their hands. I raised my hand, too.

“Who thinks I should shave it off?” was the follow-up question.

Sue raised her hand.

“The vote is 4-1 for keeping my mustache,” I declared.

“You look good with your mustache, Poppie,” the 7-year-old said.

“It’s really hairy, but I like it!” one twin said.

“Me, too!” added the other one.

The following week, Sue and I saw our two oldest grandchildren, sisters who are 11 and 7, respectively.

I took the same vote. Both girls said I should keep my mustache.

“It makes you look handsome, Poppie,” the older girl said.

“And it hides your nose hair,” her sister noted.

“You’ve been outvoted,” I told Sue. “And not just by a whisker.”

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