Coming attractions
There are times in your life where you’d rather know when something happens than have it happen without your knowledge. It isn’t as if you don’t want them to happen. They're unavoidable. They’re natural disasters that affect you personally. They don’t need to RSVP, but a simple memo would suffice.
This is one of those times.
He leans across the table at the coffee shop and squints. Little lines form around his eyes. His expression is of someone that is trying to mentally calculate a quadratic equation, or decipher one of those nonsensical X-Files episodes. He leans in even closer. The focus is maddening.
"I wasn't sure when I was far away. I thought it was the sun in my eyes," he says, leaning closer.
What is he talking about? Do I have something in my teeth? Is there a There’s Something About Mary, man-gel situation going on? Because I swear I took care of that before I left the house.
"Look!" he says loud enough for the people sitting on either side of us to listen. His finger and points to a spot on my chin, “Right here.”
Where is he going with this? If he tells me I have a pimple, or a Mary secretion on my face, I am picking up my shit and leaving.
“You have a white hair in your stubble."
Are you fucking kidding me? There is no white hair anywhere on my face. It must’ve come from his head. His own pigment-deprived, white follicle-harvested, receding-hairline head.
“It’s not a white hair. The sun’s glare is hitting you in the eyes.” What I really want to say is, Shut up, and drink your fucking coffee.
“No, no. It’s a white hair,” he says adamantly. He should know what he’s talking about since his own head has seen the ravages of time, while driving warp-speed in his old-man car.
“They’re highlights,” I reply. God, he can be so stubborn. “You know how some hairs on your head are lighter than others? Well, that also happens on your face.” I make a good point, even though I am not entirely convinced of my own reasoning.
“Uh, yeah,” he smirks as he goes back to his cruller.
Idiot. He has no idea what he’s talking about. White hair, my ass. Isn’t that what your 70’s are for? God knows your physical attractiveness is long gone, so it only makes sense that your hair is shot for shit, too.
Later on, while prepping for my shower, I take a glance into the mirror. Anything need to be cleansed, exfoliated, or moisturized? Wait. What’s that? What is that little thing on my chin? It looks like a flake of something. I try to flick it off with my nail. It’s not coming off. It’s stuck. No way. It can’t be.
I pull out my tweezers and yank the fucker out before anyone else can say anything. Destroy the evidence. Don’t put a dead body in your trunk when it’s 103 degrees outside. Bury it before it starts to decompose so people can’t ask questions about the strange smell emanating from your car (if that happens, the answer is always, I have to change the A/C’s air filters).
Is there supposed to be a specific age for white hairs to appear on your face? Your 20’s are measured in youthful moments, not yearly mole checks. How long before they spread, like a cancer, to other parts of your body? Pull a hair on your head, and instead of two coming back, four appear on your chest and arms. What if they started on other parts of your body (God forbid) and your face is the final frontier? Not on my watch.
As a child, I had a white hair, or two, on my head. Supposedly, a white hair is a sign of luck (according to my mother, a majority shareholder in L’Oreal's colour-enhancing products). Maybe she was being nice. Maybe she really meant to say that I was not going to grow old gracefully, and aging was waiting to pounce on me the minute I walked out of the house, like a hungry lion that hasn’t seen a fresh piece of meat in months.
Just as I keep an eye out for lotions and creams with high SPF, AHA and Retinol, I’ll remind myself there are plenty of products with vibrant hues and colour-stay technology - because I'm worth it. And a good set of tweezers is always good to have on hand, too.
Nothing will deface me before it’s time. Maybe a memo isn’t sufficient notice. Next time, RSVP.
This is one of those times.
He leans across the table at the coffee shop and squints. Little lines form around his eyes. His expression is of someone that is trying to mentally calculate a quadratic equation, or decipher one of those nonsensical X-Files episodes. He leans in even closer. The focus is maddening.
"I wasn't sure when I was far away. I thought it was the sun in my eyes," he says, leaning closer.
What is he talking about? Do I have something in my teeth? Is there a There’s Something About Mary, man-gel situation going on? Because I swear I took care of that before I left the house.
"Look!" he says loud enough for the people sitting on either side of us to listen. His finger and points to a spot on my chin, “Right here.”
Where is he going with this? If he tells me I have a pimple, or a Mary secretion on my face, I am picking up my shit and leaving.
“You have a white hair in your stubble."
Are you fucking kidding me? There is no white hair anywhere on my face. It must’ve come from his head. His own pigment-deprived, white follicle-harvested, receding-hairline head.
“It’s not a white hair. The sun’s glare is hitting you in the eyes.” What I really want to say is, Shut up, and drink your fucking coffee.
“No, no. It’s a white hair,” he says adamantly. He should know what he’s talking about since his own head has seen the ravages of time, while driving warp-speed in his old-man car.
“They’re highlights,” I reply. God, he can be so stubborn. “You know how some hairs on your head are lighter than others? Well, that also happens on your face.” I make a good point, even though I am not entirely convinced of my own reasoning.
“Uh, yeah,” he smirks as he goes back to his cruller.
Idiot. He has no idea what he’s talking about. White hair, my ass. Isn’t that what your 70’s are for? God knows your physical attractiveness is long gone, so it only makes sense that your hair is shot for shit, too.
Later on, while prepping for my shower, I take a glance into the mirror. Anything need to be cleansed, exfoliated, or moisturized? Wait. What’s that? What is that little thing on my chin? It looks like a flake of something. I try to flick it off with my nail. It’s not coming off. It’s stuck. No way. It can’t be.
I pull out my tweezers and yank the fucker out before anyone else can say anything. Destroy the evidence. Don’t put a dead body in your trunk when it’s 103 degrees outside. Bury it before it starts to decompose so people can’t ask questions about the strange smell emanating from your car (if that happens, the answer is always, I have to change the A/C’s air filters).
Is there supposed to be a specific age for white hairs to appear on your face? Your 20’s are measured in youthful moments, not yearly mole checks. How long before they spread, like a cancer, to other parts of your body? Pull a hair on your head, and instead of two coming back, four appear on your chest and arms. What if they started on other parts of your body (God forbid) and your face is the final frontier? Not on my watch.
As a child, I had a white hair, or two, on my head. Supposedly, a white hair is a sign of luck (according to my mother, a majority shareholder in L’Oreal's colour-enhancing products). Maybe she was being nice. Maybe she really meant to say that I was not going to grow old gracefully, and aging was waiting to pounce on me the minute I walked out of the house, like a hungry lion that hasn’t seen a fresh piece of meat in months.
Just as I keep an eye out for lotions and creams with high SPF, AHA and Retinol, I’ll remind myself there are plenty of products with vibrant hues and colour-stay technology - because I'm worth it. And a good set of tweezers is always good to have on hand, too.
Nothing will deface me before it’s time. Maybe a memo isn’t sufficient notice. Next time, RSVP.
Authored by S at 12:00 am
1 Comments:
Kid, I don't think you have anything to worry about! Men age like fine wine. Women age like milk.(At my age, I'm starting to look for the expiration date!)
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