It is something that happens to me now on a regular basis—on an all too regular basis, I should say. Let me explain. I talk to a nice young lady, and in my mind, I picture the image she has of me. Of course, I’m handsome, lean, and fresh as a daisy. My wavey blonde locks are slicked back like the hero in a perfect Tarzan cartoon. Let’s say I then step into a lift and encounter my unfortunate reality in the inevitable mirror. You’ve guessed it: reality is a far cry from the ideal mental selfie that has somehow remained anchored in my mind for the last thirty years or so. Time for an unfortunate reality check then.
I still remember a female friend making fun of my crow’s feet by the time I approached my fortieth anniversary. Staring at my older self now, I wish that the crow had somehow retained its nest instead of the actual T-Rex’s claws incrusted on my face. To straighten those folds out, you’d need the entire makeup production of a small country, or at least a couple of lifts. Presumably one could fasten one part of my facial skin to the same lift that I found myself in earlier and grab another one going up or down to stretch the other half.
That’s only the wrinkles. Don’t even mention the hair, or what’s left of it. We men are so envied for our so-called good looks when we get older, obviously by people who haven’t got a clue about our secret suffering. Not only do we get grey, but in my case, there’s not even enough substance to get grey in the first place. Oh WOE! What a double misfortune: grey AND balding. For the more vain among us, I suppose one could start colouring one’s hair, but loss of hair is… well, a loss. Frankly, no hair replacement, be it artificial or otherwise, can make up for this. If you want to look like Elton John, well then that’s your problem, although colouring has its challenges too. An acquaintance of mine began to grey very rapidly, and presumably to cover this ailment, he started to colour his hair a light shade of purple. De gustibus et coloribus non disputandem est, as we say.
Ho hum. Enough musings about the cold breath of age on our still formidable bodies. I’m sure there’s still plenty more to muse about… 🧐
-10-.
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