Why can't we all simply age gracefully instead of indulging in bizarre personal gymnastics trying to disguise our natural features, only to end up looking like something out of a Saturday Night Live skit?
The classic example of this has to be the male comb-over. Who can forget Ohio congressman James Traficant, with what can only be described as a wedding cake on top of his head? There have been others whose faces appeared on television day after day: Sam Donaldson of ABC News, Zero Mostel and Dick Van Patten, to name a few.
And I see it almost every day, somewhere. Men who have grown 150 hairs just above their ear to a length of about eight inches, and they comb it over the top of their chrome-dome to the other ear. Excuse me-do they really think they're fooling us?
The other one I love is the Julius Caesar look-the one where they take the hair growing on the back of their neck and comb that forward, terminating in little, wavy bangs that they plaster to their very high forehead in ringlets, using a pomatum product to keep it from blowing in a head wind.
I had a friend some years ago who started balding at age 30. He combed his hair forward without the goop to glue it down, often wearing a ball cap, and he literally had to walk backward in a head wind when he was hatless, all to keep it from blowing back and exposing his follicle-challenged scalp.
I know, I know: there are those who will argue that I have a full head of hair-though it is receding and thinning a bit-so it's easy for me to gaff the guys whose hair color matches their skin tone. But I maintain that, if mine fell out overnight, I'd live with it. I'm 5-feet, five-inches tall (used to be six inches but I'm shrinking). I've never contemplated wearing some sort of high-heel shoe, with inserts, in an effort to achieve a height of 5' 8". I would look like a Muppet creation, with the arms and legs of a shorter man.
Come on, guys. Lose the comb-over or the awful looking toupees, and go with what you've got; you might be surprised how well you're received.
And hang on, ladies: I'm not letting you off the hook. I see women who are obviously-well, lets say mature-but their hair is jet-black, flaming-red or Paris-Hilton-blond.
You look at their radiant hair color-hopefully a color that occurs naturally in nature-but then you travel down to a face and neck that reminds you of a sharpei puppy.
And, for heavens sake, don't get a facelift that bunches up your skin behind your ears, giving you a permanent grimace and making you look like you've just been subjected to 5 Gs of force in a Blue Angel jet soaring over Lake Washington during the week of SeaFair.
No one wants to grow older. We all want to remain youthful looking, like the image commercial advertisers have defined as attractive and desirable, but you can't fool Mother Nature or most anyone except yourself, and you can't beat her at her own game.
With age comes a certain amount of wisdom and understanding of life. You can sit and chat with a friend over a cup of coffee or glass of wine, and not be distracted by all things you think you have to do-things that drive younger people to dash from one place to another, constantly in a hurry to go somewhere, although they often don't know what the rush is all about.
If you belly hangs over your belt a little or parts of you that used to be farther off the ground seem to be heading south, don't worry about it. You've earned the right to let your body relax.
With age comes reconciliation with the conflicts of youth, the discord that accompanies trying to achieve great goals, balanced with a social and family life. It's generally the younger golfers, convinced they'll make the tour, who are out there swearing and slamming clubs on the ground. We demand much more from ourselves when we're younger.
With age also comes the realization and acceptance that we've done as much as we could with the tools we had, and whether you met or exceeded your goals, or simply did the best you could, it's time to sit back and enjoy life.
Don't throw away the joy and satisfaction of growing old gracefully by grabbing one last time for a brass ring that really isn't that attractive once you've nabbed it-there's always something more that you'll want anyway.
Dennis Wilken is a freelance reporter and columnist living in Queen Anne.
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