Growing Old

I’m going grey. No problems for me. I’m getting older. However, I have of late discovered two fundamental quirks, that going forward, could have catastrophic consequences.

First and least most, greying eyebrow hair. In a moment of obscure and rare vanity, I plucked one recently with one of those eyebrow thingies. I immediately looked younger and more handsome. It’s easy being a girl I thought. You have a tree-lined boulevard running across your brow like a neanderthal arboretum – no problems, pluck and shape and tidy. The next grey one appeared, I plucked again. And then I reached a moment of perceptive reckoning. There will be a time I concluded, when the number of grey hairs will outnumber the remaining good ones, and if I pluck them all, my eyebrows will begin to resemble the outside courts of Wimbledon in week two. Partially turfed. I am going to look like a moron. Plucking is a not a long-term option. Let vanity slide I thought.

However, second and foremost, my beard. It’s going nicely grey too – I’m cool about it, ageing is fine. It’s all salt and pepper, but a lot more salt. This morning I popped to my hairdresser, had a shear, and asked for a beard trim to complete the look. As I left the barbours I saw myself reflected in a shop window across the street. ‘Wow’ I thought, ‘who he?’ And then, I was filled with a disgusted horror. Because once shorn, my salt blended in with my skin and was now unseen, but my pepper, about an inch and a half wide and located just below my nose, looked like a Hitler moustache.

Children cried and poets dreamed as Don McClean would say. I saw dogs defecate on the Parisian walkways. And soon enough, I walked alone in the shadow of the valkyries as people rushed in any direction, to be far from me.

So, as things stand, my only options are either a complete shave, to let it grow so completely that I resemble Tommy Talib, or trim as usual and lock myself in my bunker with a well-earned a cyanide pill.