When you see the lone hair gallantly standing its ground on the crest of the forehead, it takes some time to realise that rather it being a rouge hair that has sprouted out of place, it becomes sombrely revealed that it’s in fact the last bastion of the once thickly forested hair line.
The reactions to this discovery are laughably predictable; surprise, denial, sadness and acceptance and I think that you can guess the phase I’m in that has allowed me to write this.
It has forced me to confront the reality of aging for the first time. At a spritely 27, I’m probably perched on the inclining slope of the balding bell curve so I’m joining the march of the first wave of pilgrims of my generation towards the land of the chrome dome slap heads – a land where birds where sunglasses to shield themselves from the shiny glare of the humanoids below.
You know that unremarkable phenomenon, the one where you suddenly notice every 10th person driving the same model as your new car, well the same goes for the slap heads. What you realise is just how normal it is and how untroubled ‘they’ look, not because they can’t see what’s going on up there without looking in a mirror but because they really don’t care. Given the preference, perhaps most would like to have retained their youthful locks but just can’t be bothered to put up the fight. However, I suspect that some, and I’m nearly at the cusp of genuinely including myself in this group, would not have it any other way. Its more of a philosophical statement of sorts, and kind of rebellious reverse Mohawk that gives two fingers to the unhealthy fascination with youth.
It’s not that bad, really.
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