It had been several years since I had seen the eighty year old stroke victim. She took one look at me, gathered all of her strength, and managed to say, “Where’s your HAIR?” Analie, my niece who lives in Texas, had a similar reaction after she saw a picture from my last vacation. “What happened to your hair Uncle David?”
I am not bald. Yes, I did have long, curly, wavy hair in my teens and twenties. As I grew older I allowed my hair, and to a lesser degree my wardrobe, reflect my age. Now in my late fifties, my hair is thinning and I have cut it short lest I would look like I was attempting a comb-over or a swirl. There is still hair up there, just nothing like what I had in my youth.
The joys of middle age. I have always said that the three signs of a guy reaching middle age are a gray ponytail, getting an earring, and buying a red convertible. There are others.
I drive through Chagrin Falls every Friday on my way to my gig at the Alzheimer facility. My question is what part of your youth are you trying to recapture if you and your friends dress alike, hang out in front of an ice cream store, and your favorite mode of transportation has three wheels?
I am not chasing my youth. I didn’t like being a kid. I was powerless. I had very little control over my personal environment. The twenties saw struggles with money and direction. At fifty-seven I am as secure as I will ever get. I enjoy my life, my work, and my friends. I have come to terms with my ineptness on the golf course.
I will trade a little hair for a little peace of mind