Other than senior discounts and Medicare, one enormous
perk of aging is the lack of hairy legs.
Oh, I do occasionally – about once every three or four
months – have to harvest the meager crop, scattered sparsely on legs whose
veins tend to make them look like maps of the London subway system.
Still. It’s a perk.
Hair is a contrary mammalian trait. It seems to grow
where we don’t want it and disappear from places where it is fervently desired.
This is true for both men and women but I will deal
only with the aging female here. [And I will not deal with all of the capillary
ramifications – like moustaches (which is another dilemma altogether).]
When I was younger and more smug (smugness seems to be
characteristic of youth) I would smirk disparagingly at men who had attempted
to disguise a balding pate by combing longer locks over barren skulls.
No longer.
My once glorious tresses still exist but, like the
earth’s aquifer, are diminished.
My hair is thinning.
From the front and the sides, I still look adequately
‘haired’. Not so much from the back.
Now I too must fluff the remains and try to guide them
over my pink, pink scalp.
I even have some powder I can sprinkle over the too
obvious hair barrenness. It helps.
So beware, oh youth. Avoid smugness and smirks. All
too soon, that which you deride will be that with which you must contend.
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