Turning 60 is a privilege. Erm, for who exactly?
Having seen a look of panic flash across my face as my milestone birthday celebrations began, my darling sister-in-law gently informed me that ‘turning 60 is a privilege.’
Which, I now understand, is a more polite way of saying ‘well, at least you’re not dead.’
But hey she has a good bedside manner does Wor Sis.
Apparently, turning 60 is a time to pause, reflect on your triumphs and disasters, and then forge ahead with a renewed sense of vigour and purpose.
And if I could add one more to the list of hollow platitudes, it would be: Don’t look in the mirror. Looking in the mirror at 60 can make a dent in any renewal of vigour and deflate even the keenest senses of purpose.
Jeez man, I’ve got more wrinkles than I want and hairs sprouting exactly where I don’t need them.
What really is the evolutionary advantage of thinning the hair from the top of your head in old age but encouraging vigorous growth in the nose and ears? I mean, could they have picked a harder place to shave?
And what’s with the eyebrow hair? It does both. It’s an untidy combination of exponential growth and relentless thinning. My two boys have eyebrows so thick you paint the back door with them. Mine used to be like that. Statement eyebrows. Eyebrows with purpose. A tarmac roadway going places. Today they are like tumbleweed on a desert plain. Wayward. No comment eyebrows.
And don’t go looking at the byline photograph that appears at the top of this page (in the paper) and say: ‘He doesn’t look so bad’. That picture was taken years ago. I asked for it to be updated, but the newspaper sales department vetoed the move. ‘Yours is not a face that will sell us papers. Keep it forever 50-something,’ they said. I appealed, but the legal team got involved.
They feared a sudden change to show my current face leering from the pages could, if it were to fall into the hands of a child, open up some sort of difficult legal proceedings. Distress of a minor, apparently. In short, I could be charged with possessing an offensive face.
As the editor said: ‘Be grateful we still let an old codger like you vent your cantankerous spleen to our readers.’
Fair enough, I guess the privilege is all yours!