I must say I’m a bit fed up with the current fashion for men to shave their heads. It’s all gone on a bit too long in my opinion.
I myself have a full mop you see. Not a hint of pink among the snow despite my years. I fully expect that someone will have to cut it after I’m dead, just so’s I’ll fit in the coffin.
At any other time and place such abundance would have been a reason for admiration. “Look at him,” women would have said, “He may be getting on a bit but there’s still something there.”
The implication being, of course, that such virility above might well be repeated down below.
I’m no poseur
But now I’m just the dimbo still paying out five or six quid every few weeks. Unlike the rest, who keep their hair out of the way so it won’t get in their eyes when they’re facing up to the Forces Of Evil.
Poseurs.
And another thing. My body.
More by luck than anything I’ve done to deserve it, I have a torso not too bulgy, not too flabby, not too saggy.
Again, I should be the object of female admiration. “Good for his age, looks after himself.”
Perhaps even the occasional “I wouldn’t say no.” No harm in dreaming at any rate.
But I can’t dream now. Not with blokes as old as me, or older, jogging their washboard tummies up and down hills, swimming in ridiculously cold seas, and doing press ups in public.
Show offs.
It just don’t seem fair somehow. That’s all I’m saying.
Image: chris corwin under CC BY 2.0
