One Shade of Gray

I turned 50 last year, and one thing I noticed, other than the fact that I got irrationally indignant over receiving an AARP card in the mail, is that people start responding to you differently. You say certain things you’ve said for years, and suddenly, you get different responses.

Here’s an example. About the time I turned 40, I would punctuate some statement by saying, “But what do I know, I’m old.”

And the person would inevitably respond, “Hush, you’re not old!” Which is exactly what I wanted them to say. As each year passed, though, the responses changed. They would say “You’re not old,” but without the exclamation point in their voice. Then they would just kind of laugh. And finally, when you hit 50, the response is, “Well, that happens to everybody.”

Similar thing happened with my hair. At 40, gray hair started creeping in, so I would jokingly say, “I should dye my hair.” And the response would be, “No! It looks good.” Over the years that changed to “I like men with a little gray hair,” to “You look distinguished,” to what I get now, which is, “Yeah. You probably should.”

Speaking of hair, I was at the Fancy French salon where I get my hair styled – Le Fantastique’ du Sam’s, or as we call it in Henry County, Fantastic Sam’s – getting my voluminous locks shorn by my favorite stylist, Whitney or Lindsey or something like that. They have a lot of turnover there.

Is it a coincidence that the cute young hair stylist is the one who cuts my hair the best? Perhaps, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, she was talking to me, and admiring how much hair I have, and wisely avoiding mentioning the color, and I jokingly said, yeah, you’d hardly know I was an old man from looking at that.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“I’m 50,” I said, with the pride of a 3-year-old holding up fingers to show his age. This is where the young hair stylist is supposed to say, “You’re 50? No way are you that old!”

Instead she says, “Oh, my mother just turned 50. But she doesn’t act old.”

Clearly, this girl was not interested in getting a big tip.

Reeling from that shot to the jaw, I went down to see my dad, and his friend was there, and she said “Your daddy told me you’re 54. Is that right?” Of COURSE it’s not RIGHT! Surely you misheard him, I said. So then he got in the car and I said “How old am I?” And he said “You’re 54.” I looked at him and said, “Are you sure about that?” He looked sheepish and said, “You’re right. I forgot. You’re 56.” I said, “You know, THIS is why we’re moving you into assisted living.”

People! What is wrong with you? I mean, heck, come on, I don’t care. I’m not sensitive about my age. I don’t care that people know that I AM 50 YEARS OLD! And yes, my doctor did tell me I should not get excited like this, but I just can’t help it.

My day got worse. An aunt I haven’t seen in a long time stopped by to visit. She’s 84 herself, but I marveled at how sharp she still seemed to be mentally, even though she was breaking down physically. She looked at me at one point and said, “What are you now, about 60?”
Did I mention that she appears to be losing it mentally????

I don’t know when you cross that threshold from being younger than you look, to looking your age, to just looking old. Short of buying a Corvette, there’s not a lot I can do about it now, anyway. I will go gracefully into that good night, be proud of my experience, impart wisdom to younger folks, and embrace my status as a seasoned citizen. Just after I get through burning that @#$^%W@%^ing AARP card I got in the mail last week.