There are certain things one tries not to mention in public. Other than ones specifics in love life, so to speak.
But I do want to mention I’ve been watching TV. Excessive TV. And that got me to thinking about the frangible’s of getting old. Not too old, and the thing I noticed about this getting old thing is walking in the rain.
You first notice when it rains those tiny, cold drops. You feel them hit your head. Well, not your head so much as you feel the cold little pricks strike your scalp, and if you are a thinking man, such as myself, you think to yourself, it didn’t use to feel like that, it use to feel like the rain was hitting my head.
A bit more and you think, well, this stuff is hitting my scalp, not my hair. And you realize that while you have hair all over your head, it just isn’t quite as thick as it was back when . . . well, wives and some girlfriends can be charitable.
So, it’s not as thick as it once was. Sounds like the truth.
But I wanted to point out the TV anchors. They have that meta hair. Sleek sides, well trimmed and cared for, but the top looks like something from Moravian Lands End sheeps butt.
All back combed and standing up stupidly, maybe like a Donald Trump envy hair=do, you know what I mean. Strange. Maybe they’re all bald and get their hair from the stations prop shop and the same one is so popular that the prop people don’t have time to comb it out program to program and just jam it on the anchors head.
Uhm? Yeah. My dog is envious. I’m not. I keep mine short, but those rain drops still bother me furiously, I keep thinking of getting as old as my father, older maybe. I know I will – if I live long enough, that is.
From the reaches,