I happen to be a smidgen over 40 and the hill is not in sight yet, at least for a young man like me. My looks haven’t changed for 20 years now but I’ve noticed that many other men my age look quite a lot older than I. No, I’m not using Grecian Formula (even though I would love to) nor am I tempted by Minoxidil and the wonders they claim, nor do I ever even have to think about Viagra, but, I’ve noticed that I could use a good aftershave.
The wonder years of my life have left me with wondering what to do with the rest of it? Is it the ravages of a midlife crisis or is it just that I’m still stuck in the 70s, the years when I could boast that I was a little older and wiser than my compadre, Neil Diamond, who happens to be a few years younger than I, albeit a little older looking. I look at my father and wonder if I will ever have the distinguished (grey and white) hair that he has, but hey, who am I kidding. I think that the loss of my follicles, which happened soon after I lost something that others tend to love to lose (virginity) or hang onto for dear life (in the case of girls from south of here) gave me an advantage over older guys. Yes, I was considered a little more mature and therefore reasonably considerate and dependable.
Today, the crowning glory that adorns many other craniums is artificially imbedded through many complicated sutures and cuts, leaving the top lawn of a man looking somewhat like the head of a plastic doll, all neatly laid out in rows and columns, slightly tufted together. Now, I wonder where that hair came from, and what do you do in the case of a curly head? Which part of the anatomy do the transplanted hairs come from and who is the unlucky donor?
In many ways, I can count on my wrinkle-free face to fool many a fool, but when I take off my baseball cap, the farce unfolds freely and the fools are no longer fooled. Which reminds me of one day, strolling through a massive mall in downtown Montreal, I was stopped by the boys in blue. I was escorted to the patrol car and placed in the back seat. Whoa, I thought, what have I done? I was asked many questions which I answered back in a stuttering way and I had this incredible sinking feeling that I was going to be put away. “Why do you have two names and why are the photographs of you so dissimilar?” queried one holstered man of the law. At this point, I started to lose my composure and started sweating profusely.
I glanced over to the new video screen at a picture of myself, or some total stranger who happened to have a near genetic duplicate structure as I. I took off my cap to wipe my head free of the sweat that gathered by the litre. One officer looked at me and said, “Whoops, I think we have the wrong guy. The one we want has hair. You can go now, Mr. Orr, I apologize for thinking that you were the bank robber we were after.” I thanked God for all his wisdom and I thanked my refusal to bend over and dump the Minoxidil on my head. Yes, I was proud of my great reflector and happy that I wasn’t going to be afraid to take a shower and drop the soap by mistake. All other men who are follicl challenged as I should take note: grow mullet, half is better than none and age a wonderful thing.
