Something eerie happened the other day. A stranger called me sir.
A glance around confirmed she was, in fact, talking to me and that it wasn’t another one of my schisms. I suppose it’s a polite enough thing to say, and I’m sure the nice lass in the deli meant well. But I’m too juvenile to be a sir. A sir wears embossed smoking jackets and carries a chequebook.
As if this wasn’t enough, then came every queen’s nightmare — the discovery of a bald spot. A bald spot! How can this be? I’m Peter Pan. When did I become a prematurely balding, cheque-writing, sir person?
I guess we live in our heads. And I’m 18 there. The onset of Nanna thoughts such as ‘What’s the world coming to?’ should probably have tipped me off. But I’m not so keen on this sir carry-on. Much like ‘champ’ or ‘chief’ and punctuated with blokey winks; these are colloquialisms favoured by bus drivers and the like. I suspect I’m being patronised. About what, I’m not entirely sure.
So is it time for a rug? I can’t wear caps forever, and if I must be follically challenged, I refuse to look like Bert Newton. I don’t really have wrinkles, so cosmetic surgery would just be overkill. Nor am I ready for the slightly startled look.
Tracksuits and combovers can wait. An emergency grooming consult confirmed that less is indeed more, and I now sport a humble buzz cut. I’m still adjusting. Although this must be better than neurotically clinging to the past, strand by strand.
What’s with the fixation with eternal youth though? Pert pecs, strangely fresh faces, and a cornucopia of hair. I’m going to age gracefully if it kills me. I know, I know; you’re only as old as you feel. Life is for the living. Yada, yada.