As I looked into the mirror, lyrics from “A Deeper Shade of Soul”, a song by the 90s fusion band Urban Dance Squad, immediately popped into my head. “Surprise, surprise; so you rub your eyes…” Thing is, I kept rubbing, but it was still there. Sparsely scattered throughout my freshly-grown goatee. My soul patch, my grunge mange, my Shaggy. It no longer reflected that deeper shade of soul. What I saw was the lighter shade of old.
The infamous goatee is one of those things that has come and gone since my mid-20s. It was my youthful change-up from the same-ole-same-ole blandness of everyday me. Since my head is now clean shaven in the shiny image of a cue ball, it’s basically the extent of what I’m able to mix up in the appearance department. It’s my lame self-expression of suburban mutiny. My pointless rebellion of corporate professionalism. After a few months, it runs its course and vanishes yet again in another tantrum of self-expression and pointless anti-rebellion rebellion.
Squint, blink, blink, squint harder. I tried several different angles in three separate light sources, but to no avail. As much as I would try to deny it, they simply weren’t blonde hairs. My waning optimism humbled. Execution-style.
Deep down, I have always been a firm believer in the premise that you are only as old as you feel. Even as I accelerate towards 40 at break-neck speed, I literally still view myself as that carefree, 26 year old lout. More often than not, this viewpoint also directly conflicts with the physical limitations imposed by Father-time upon my 40 year old carcass. Limitations that aren’t fully realized until the agonizing aftermaths and their associated maimings have thoroughly run their course. In retrospect, maimings that may have been avoided if I simply switched my multi-vitamin to their “silver” product line.
I have to admit. This was new territory for me and it really played with my psyche. The shaving of the head thing never really bothered me. It was somewhat trendy and it didn’t actually advertise my genuine ripeness. This gray business though. It was truly the first time that I looked into the mirror and viewed myself as a 40 year old man. I didn’t necessarily like the mental images.
Here I’ve gone from Redbeard, the ruthless and enigmatic pirate of the Mediterranean…to Greybeard. You guys remember Greybeard. The pirate on the beach with the blackened bifocal visor and metal detector, who throws his back out trying to pull his treasure from the dunes. The pirate who takes long afternoon naps before raiding English merchant ships. The pirate who dons tan polyester shorts coupled with black dress socks and sock suspenders over his wooden leg. OK, so I made up Greybeard. However, you have now assembled the visuals running rampant through my head.
“Yo ho ho and a bottle of Mucilex. Now get off my lawn!”
Honestly, I should have seen this coming. Shortly before Apple’s release of the iPad, I heard two guys anxiously discussing the latest tech sensation at a coffee shop. I merely assumed they were just medical students discussing post-surgical eye care. Droid, Kindle, and 4G were new Transformers characters until I was educated otherwise by a CNN business report. Techo-geriatrics or just outright senility? Quite possibly, a combination of both.
Of course, I also get those not-so-gentle reminders in my assorted daily dialogues as well. Last summer, I had a college sophomore as a summer intern at work. While looking up places to eat lunch on the internet one morning, he happened upon a local establishment called “Mel’s Cafe”. I spun towards him and immediately delivered, in a deadpan falsetto drawl, “kiss my grits”.
You could classify the look that I received as your classic combination of shock and utter disgust. “What did you just say?”
“Mel’s Diner? Flo? Kiss my grits? Come on…really? Nothing?” Oh right, he’s twenty.
My desperate attempts at disguising the self-carbon-dating of myself are equally as pathetic. For example, I am a self-proclaimed music nut. Music has always been my universal topic of discussion in bridging generations and genres of influence. I pride myself on staying current with the modern rock and R&B scenes. That is, until I start unconsciously slipping in references of a reminiscent yesteryear. Words such as “album”, “B-side”, “45”, and “record store” inadvertently incorporate themselves into my geezer gab and inevitably rat out my four decades of existence.
I’m still leery about the broadcasting and outright marketing of the fact that “my beard is weird”, but I have decided to keep it around for a little longer. I recently caught Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead on the radio reassuring that “oh well, a touch of grey kind of suits you anyway.” At this point, I can’t say that I agree with that sentiment. After all, deep down…I’m still only 26. This billboard of gray just doesn’t project me at all.
However, reality is oftentimes as subtle as a cinderblock to the toes. Apparently, it’s time for me to accept the fact that my deeper shade of soul has officially walked the plank. No longer do I channel that serious alt-rock mystique with the goatee. Probably more the creepy old guy from that “very special episode” of a sitcom.
Garcia does provide me with some solace at the end of that song though. “I will get by. I will survive.” I still don’t accept it, but point taken. The fact that I’m quoting the Dead, though, most likely means that I’m already well-beyond hope anyway. If that’s the highway that I’m headed down though, I’m going out kicking and screaming…doing 30 mph in the fast lane.
