August 12, 2013. That’s when it happened.
Vanessa was messing with my hair when she saw it. Grey. Not just a random hair or two, but enough to start talking percentages. This was to be expected as my maternal grandfather’s hair turned in his twenties. Nevertheless, my body is beginning to betray my notion of a timeless existence this side of heaven.
I decided that I need a new bathroom. There are too many lights in mine. Am I actually seeing my hair get lighter or am I just noticing the light reflecting off my hair. What if I’ve thought the light had been reflecting off my hair all this time while really, my hair has been that much lighter for that long.
I don’t feel that old. I’m “only” 29. When starting college, 29 seemed forever away and beyond foreign. Now, though I have those years behind me, I can’t say that it feels any different. I already never get carded when buying alcohol (though I’ve hardly been carded at any point in time), but throw in a white top, I’m going to be accused of robbing the cradle when going a a date with Vanessa. Don’t laugh—even with three kids, we can sneak in a date every second blue moon.
I don’t fear getting old, per se, or death. I fear appearing old. I don’t want to hang out with college kids, but I want to still live in the fantasy world that I could go back to that and fit in. The last time I was on campus, I was asked which dorm my granddaughter lived in by one punk and if I needed help finding the 30-year reunion meeting at the alumni center.
Three months later, this is still gnawing at me a little. I know it shouldn’t, but I can’t explain why I still look closer each morning in the mirror trying to figure out if it the light getting brighter or my hair is that much lighter.
featured image credit:flickr/Boston Public Library