Why it all went south
Words © Paul Ransom / Photo credits various
Aging? Yeah, great. Wisdom, letting go, better impulse control. Less drama. All good thus far, except…ouch. Aches and pains on shuffle play. Knocks that never quite heal. The undeniable signs. Then there’s the mirror. OMFG! Is that really me?
My dad, now in his mid-80s, likes to say that this is nature’s way of telling us to fuck off and die. Getting the hint, dumb human? Although I am a quarter century behind him in the downhill slalom to oblivion, I am already starting to get the message. This is as good as it’s ever gonna be, Paulie. Just let me know when you’ve had enough.
Perhaps foolishly, the much-heralded sagacity of getting old has yet to cure me of futile struggle. Case in point: hair. Like approximately half of the male population north of forty and many post-menopausal women, I am losing it. Androgenic alopecia is not only in the house, it has established a base camp on my increasingly slick skull.
However, my real issue here is not too little, but too much. Hair everywhere; just not where I would prefer it.
Below the crown I am turning into a bush. Evolution is clearly going into reverse, simian fur returning for one last hurrah. If such hirsute regression came with a freakish ability to climb trees and survive naked in rainforests I might take it as a win. But no.
Nature is a cold blooded killer. If it doesn’t get you with bacteria, bleed you out during childbirth, or arrange for you to be eaten, starved or murdered, it opts for the slow grind of decline. It most certainly does not care about your hairstyle. In truth, it mocks your vanity.
For me this is now a daily occurrence. The chasm between the imagined body and its aching, not-so-cute counterpart is jarring. Alarming. Naked in the mirror I am less Olympian ideal, more wire brush. Like one of those untidy, dried out desert shrubs that only a botanist or a desperate bee could find attractive.
Before you feel moved to remind me about the multiple pitfalls of clinging to outdated notions of youth and beauty, I agree. I know I am not sexy and, for the most part, I no longer care. Actually, it’s a relief. It means I can stop trying. Which is great, because I no longer have the energy to be anyone’s idea of lover or partner. But the hair thing – nup. Fuck that shit. Death can have the last laugh…but my corpse will not be mistaken for a carpet.
The great hair migration is, I’m assured, not a rarity; although I have to wonder why. Instead of helping me stay warm and offering a modicum of sun protection, my once colourful locks now over-populate parts well south of useful. What is the evolutionary advantage of a bewhiskered back? Or bushy big toes. Do my freshly plucked eyebrows really need to morph into scraggly toothbrushes overnight? What is the function of the various coin sized patches of stubble on my belly? Why is there a full 70s moustache in my underpants?
Oh, that’s right. Fuck off and die. Not content to make everything slower and more painful, evolution is sentencing me to ever more extravagant bouts of pointless depilatory resistance. Either that or find myself so repulsive that Sophoclean eye-gouging and other forms of mortification may soon start to seem preferable.
Hence the brand new multi-pronged device. In lieu of waxing and lasering – neither of which have convinced me of their efficacy and affordability – a selection of blades. I may have come late to the manscaping craze, but the sight of all that shag pile being swept into the dustpan allowed me a small moment of smooth shouldered respite.
Maybe one day I will embrace my inner chimp and wear my fur with pride. More likely, nature will render me too tired to bother, and I will complete the human-to-hedge crossover in a state of exhausted resignation.
Good thing I’m a godless existentialist who embraces the beautiful and meaningless absurdity of my condition and is already prepping (with fleecy gratitude) for the ultimate act of surrender.
Hey, nature, any time you’re ready. Just let me have a quick shave first.
As If You Were Listening 