I was watching a portion of the national evening news this evening, and one of the featured interviews involved a ninety-four-year-old man. All I can say is that I hope I look that good when I’m his age, assuming I’m still around to poof myself up in front of a mirror, that is. Not only did he sound reasonably articulate, he also managed both not to drool and or fall asleep during the segment.
And his hair. My God, his hair. He sported a full head of jet black locks, as if he had used shoe polish as a dye.
Dude. Your 94 freaking years old. There’s no way your hair isn’t gray. No way.
Why is it that guys who reach a certain age have to undertake such extreme, ridiculous measures to hold onto some fiction of their youth? Has The Real Housewives perfection desperation migrated to men?
I really don’t know the answer, but the phenomenon of ridiculous-looking elderly men tarted up with unnaturally colored and fully covered noggins seems to be spreading.
It is my understanding that when we grow older and reach a certain age, our hair will turn gray and will slowly thin out — maybe not in that order, but you get the idea.
But it seems that some guys just can’t accept the facts, and the results are often cartoonish shades of black and orange tresses buttressed by a body with a dumpy midsection propelled by feet adorned with white socks and sandals.
Classic AARP mass hysteria.
And I haven’t even mentioned the dreaded comb-overs yet.
For instance, I occasionally have to deal with a very senior guy at work, and I have an extraordinarily hard time even talking to him with a straight face. Sure, he’s nice enough, but whatever it is on top of his head resembles a giant squirrel’s nest or something. I half expect to see an acorn drop out, but the rug he wears occupies a solid position within the top ten list for worst hairpieces ever worn by man.
I frequently find myself completely ignoring whatever he’s saying because this voice inside of me keeps yelling, “For God’s sake, man, don’t you see yourself? Either come clean and go bald, or break out a WeedEater and get that mop into shape! It’s over-the-top horrible, after all.”
I just can’t take him seriously with that thing on his head. And if that’s his modus operandi regarding personal appearance, what does it say about how he conducts business — “Yep, we rounded up on that invoice, but we’ll probably round down on the next one. It will all work out.”
You get the picture.
Generally speaking, I’ve come to terms on a personal level with the ongoing graying and thinning processes. After all, I think I had my first gray hair in high school, so it’s not like I’m surprised it’s happening. I’m also determined not to fall prey to the dreaded comb-over zombie attack.
Unless, of course, I want to portray myself as a complete clown and buffoon to the world at large.
But just when I think I’ve got the whole thing figured out, I get surprised.
Not more than four days ago at a fast food joint, there was an elderly gentleman who sported what can only be described as a work of art on his head. The color was almost natural, but what truly impressed me was the multi-layer comb-over that had a solid cumulus cloud baseline around his ears and was topped with a Greek mantle weave worthy of Zeus himself. It was classy in a Ron Burgundy sort of way, yet dignified in an Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter sort of way.
In other words, it just worked.
So I guess I have another option to consider taking over the next twenty or thirty years. Option A remains keep everything close-cropped and neat, since Matt Lauer seems to have popularized that look.
But then there’s Option B. That would include letting everything grow out in biblical proportions and length, with the idea that with enough brittle stringy hair, anything might be possible.
I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking dreadlocks.
Plus, there’s the added bonus that it will surely annoy Daughter, as well as my greater family at large.
And that makes it all worthwhile.