Betrayed

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 avoid your swinging, inevitable blade?  Are an early death or "Just For Men" my only options?