Bald ain’t bad
There comes a time in every man’s life when personal appearance no longer matters.
It’s not that we stop caring about hygiene, though if we no longer had to bathe we wouldn’t mind. We just don’t care how we look. Take the whole silk purse/sow’s ear analogy. It’s kind of like that.
We’re older. Too old to be considered attractive to attractive women no matter what we do.
Look at Arnold.
I’m not sure what color his hair is. He’s had so many facelifts he has to scratch under his chin to remove belly button lint. And, I’m sorry, but the muscles are gone.
My hair bled white when I turned 40 and no longer was confined to growing on top of my head. I don’t know if I am an Ewok or Chewbacca. As for muscles, I never had any muscles.
We get to this age we stop caring how we look. It doesn’t matter. I could get dressed up in a tuxedo and they’d say, “Hey look at the old guy in the tux. Nice.”
Nobody takes me seriously anymore so why should I?
We stopped caring if something matches. If it fits, doesn’t dig and offers a modicum of comfort, I’m wearing it. I don’t care what the T-shirt says. Also, I happen to like wearing white socks with sandals – it’s comfortable – which is why I’m forbidden from ever wearing sandals again.
I don’t care for wearing a belt all the time because it digs and I’m ambivalent about the whole fly engagement option anyway.
I’m going to the Pig for some creamer and Little Debbie cakes so it doesn’t much matter how I look just as long as everything is covered up.
I used to be a stickler about the proper wearing of a baseball cap; cap bill bent slightly, logo or letter centered directly above the nose, and the hat pulled no lower than the eyebrows. Now, just as long as it lands somewhere in the vicinity of my bald spot so it doesn’t burn I’m good.
Men, at some point in our lives, give up on our hair. Those of us who still have it start to look upon those that don’t with a bit of envy. Shower time must be a snap for those who don’t have to wash their hair.
It happens sometimes in a man’s late fifties. I’m 55 and I can feel the urge coming. It’s stronger this summer than it was last year. I want to cut off all my hair. Now, I don’t want to go total Kojak on you. I’m just tired of messing with it.
I want the burr haircut I used to have as a kid.
With my chances at getting the girl being slim and none, and Slim just left town, why do I need hair?
It’s too much trouble. I just scruff it out after a shower and I’m on my way to enjoy my day.
So if you see me walking down the street, plaid Bermuda shorts, un-tucked striped golf shirt that looks like I found it under the bed, black socks and sandals, you know I snapped.
Just smile and wave, or cross to the other side of the street.
I’m harmless, anyway. I probably won’t even know you’re there.