Some people say I look like I just came out of the womb, but I shave. In fact, the greys have moved from my hairline to my jawline. I couldn’t grow a beard to save my life, but the loose cluster of hairs sprouting from the left side of my jaw – sparse though they may be – are all grey. I shave them, they grow back. I shave them, they grow back.
Growing up, my older brother would poke a finger into my forehead or arm. I’d knock the finger away, only to have it return a second later. He was older, stronger, and determined to get under my skin. No matter what you do, his poking finger insisted, I’ll be back.
These hairs are God’s way of telling me I’m getting older every day, and I need to live well or die bitter. I knock his finger away with a disposable razor, and it grows back.
Stop that, God.
Okay, okay, I’m trying to be a better person, are you happy?
I think I’m fine, then aging throws me a new surprise. Watching the sides of my head silvering up is one thing, but now the top is getting frosty. There’s also a dot near the crown of my head about the width of a nickel. I saw it one day while gelling up.
(Well, really, I use hair wax. But "waxing up?" Unless I'm a DJ, a surfer, or rubbing on certain bulbous body parts, that makes no sense)
“What the hell is that?” I cried.
My tone brought Becky to the bathroom, where I bemoaned the new grey.
“That’s just you getting sexier.” With Becky’s slinky tone, I could almost believe it. I dipped my head and leaned down so she could inspect the ravages of time. She poked the dot on top of my head.
“That’s Dylan,” she said.
It starts. One tiny six-year-old and a decade of hearing, “There’s no way you’re ___ years old” is out the window.
When I’m old and incontinent, he better wipe my butt, is all I’m saying.