There's a scene in City Slickers where Billy Crystal's character bemoans middle age as having hair where you don't want it and not having hair where you do. I can relate as I view myself in the mirror these days. The bottom of my crowning glory is changing. What had been a perpetual autumn on my chin is stalked by winter. The copper and chestnut (and occasional stray blond and brunette strand) is changing one by one to a pigment-less white. While my temples have a spot of gray or white--I can't tell which--that doesn't bother me. But after having adjusted (sort of) to the trauma of losing my hair ( I did experience my teens in the metal years after all) my beard/goatee was all that was left to me in terms of Samsonesque glory. Now, even that is fading. Oh, Cruel Age, with every swipe of your sickle you turn a red hair white. You even violate the hair on my chest. Four white intruders have appeared. Is there no way to avo...
A humble blog of tragic proportions