As I creep toward my mid 30s, my outward appearance, usually so crisp and dashing*, is beginning to be betrayed by an old nemesis of mine – an enemy that has always been intransigent, but is now accelerating its assault on my good looks*. What am I referring to? My hair.
As a kid I sported the bowl cut – my hair would tend to grow outward, like an ungainly afro (in fact, it still does), and I also had (and still have, though not quite as bad) a crown that jutted out horribly. If you asked me what my worst physical feature was, I would always reply ‘hair’. As an adult, I have taken to the brutal ‘number 2’ cut, which is to have my hair shaved down to near n on-existence. I can live with it short, for it cannot get messy or unkempt or windswept in such circumstances. Victory was mine – or so it seemed.
Lately, my hair has been fighting back, not with wild growth, but with colour changes. I turned a blind eye to it at first, but gradually the greying process has been speeding up. There can be no denying it – I am slowly but surely becoming a silver fox (or is that silver meerkat?).
My feelings about this? I actually don’t mind. It’s inevitable that I’ll go grey, and I’m not vain enough to start dyeing it. I can actually see myself looking quite distinguished!
So my hair’s ‘victory’ over me might end up being nothing of the kind. It could actually serve as a mark of an elder statesman, cultured and refined. Alternatively, it could just mean that fatherhood is ageing me!
*may or may not be lies
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