As a guy, I am finding aging is not a bowl of strawberry sherbet. Well, unless you are 19 and are using a fake I.D. to get into a bar. That is not only fun but exciting. It is also good to be male and enjoy your 'Jesus' year: age 33. If you look swell the year of the double 3; it's a bonus. It is supposedly the high point in attractiveness if you sport a penis. After that, things start to careen down the slippery slope of added birthdays. The hair falls out. You wake up with diagonal ditches across your forehead. Wiry, hoary hairs sprout in places like your ears, nostrils and back. Eyebrows can suddenly look like John L. Lewis'. Musculature shrinks. The libido gets a headache more frequently.
I can only speak for the male population. Women generally don't worry about things like unwanted back hair unless they are of certain Mediterranean persuasions or possibly weight lifters. There are the usual aches and pains and increased disease susceptibilities. Lower energy comes into play...loss of eye sight, hearing and of course, memory. Patience starts to stunt. Curmudgeon mood swings surface more frequently. That "Get off my Lawn!" kind of attitude can infiltrate more easily. Easy breezy begins to dry and the smallest speed bump can ruin your day.
Yeah sure, the 'wisdom' thing is just great. You can pontificate about all you have learned and sit on your laurels (but not too long because the back goes numb) and sooth say until the cows come home. There can be a dignity and graciousness with your advancing years if you are lucky enough to keep your health and not need too much lypo.
Considering I am almost in my mid 50s, things could be worse. (That was a terrifying sentence I just typed.) The body is mostly intact and if I fall down I can usually get up. My wrinkles aren't cavernous and I can stay on the elliptical for 1/2 hour without having an asthma attack. All of that curly, dark hair I used to have is long gone so I shave my skull and it looks OK. Fortunately my head isn't shaped like the Hindenburg. The only particular that kind of bothers me and has become a challenge, is my beard. (Well, that, and uneven dry face patchiness, knee wrinkles and trying to remember why I just parked, walked into Publix and am standing in the bread aisle without a clue.)
In recent years, my beard has definitely gotten more and more gray. What used to be a beautiful auburn has dulled with speckles of snow and well, dirty snow. I allow the grandpa effect only up to a point. When too much white appears, I have to rub on the dye. I feel I have to because my opinion is that I get too washed out looking. If I was as tan as Charlie Crist, well, then, maybe....Raphael and a few friends like the salt and pepper but I am not ready to live with it just yet. I listen to the "Dye, baby, dye!" crowd....So.....
Usually I get a medium brown that I basically 'paint' on and leave for about 6 or 7 minutes. I then go and shampoo my face and hope I haven't left it on too long. There is that tricky period where if you go a minute or two over, it looks like you have dipped the lower part of your face in ash. One can end up looking like a pageant actor portraying one of Jesus' disciples in a Passion Play. I vary the 'depth' of darkness and often will leave some white here and there to make it less obvious that I am, indeed, dying my facial hair. If anyone is paying attention at all to my age they have to know that my beard is unnaturally dark. I do it anyway. It just makes me feel better (even if I end up looking like Billy Mays.)
Well, yesterday I thought I would be adventurous and try something different. Like I said, my original beard color was a rich auburn. After searching for a reddish/brown in the the 'Just for Men' beard dye aisle, I came up short. I settled on a woman's Clairol hair color that I thought would work. It was a deep sequoia color that looked believable on the box's picture. My friend Mookie had done something similar and said it sufficed. The directions indicated it would cover gray so I was set. I got home, put on the see through plastic gloves and started mixing up the concoction. It was way more complicated than regular beard dye. I had to squeeze a gooey solution into another bottle and shake it. Next came a slow, squirting process where I dabbed. It was runny and clumpy. Beard dye always has a brush that makes it easier to manipulate. This stuff was designed to be spread all over your head and rubbed in with your hands. It would also possibly plug the gulf oil leak.
Very quickly it became apparent I would have to be swift in my application. My artistic side would need to be tapped. While simultaneously blotting on an increasingly alarming burgundy, slightly red radish-like color combo, the dripping picked up steam. Skin bordering my hair follicles also was staining rapidly and turning crimson. I had to wipe with a wet cloth to remove the pigment from my skin while trying to even out the color throughout the beard. My juggling fingers somehow worked and I peered into the mirror. My beard appeared black raspberry and glistening. The trim line was even and clean from smears. The box said I was supposed to wait 10 minutes but the color was going Kodachrome / High Def in a way that was making me very nervous. After a minute or two, I jumped in the shower and washed it off. When I emerged to dry, it took all my courage to take the first peek in the mirror. Finally I looked. It wasn't horrific but the gray areas were lighter and kind of an eggplant/red licorice hue. The consistency was pretty even but it wasn't really a dense brick/brown. It was more like that beautiful deep burgundy/garnet mix that is seen on the fancier pillows at Target. The ones that are satin with tassels and are tossed into a harem. Not feeling that exotic, I decided to deepen the shade with some of my regular brown, beard dye and stepped back in the shower.
After my second attempt, I determined my appearance normal enough that I could go out in public and do a few errands. I would wear a baseball cap so the contrast of my shaved head wouldn't look so alarming. I stopped at a UPS store to fax some documents. No one seemed to look at my face with alarm or amusement. So far so good. I stopped for a coffee. I ran into a friend. We chatted a bit. At first he wasn't looking directly at me as he conversed and perused a hook up website on his computer. Later, he gave me his full attention and I caught a quick widening of his eyes. Though subtle, I could tell he had done a quick visual intake of my lower face...kind of like when you notice a person has a piece of sun dried tomato caught in between teeth. He didn't say anything but it was apparent something gave him pause. Yet, no one was talking in hushed tones and looking my way. It was hard to say what the truth was. Perhaps denial had settled in. The real test would be what Raphael says when he gets home.
The door opens an hour later. I am at my computer. Raphael appears and walks toward me, smiling and carrying some stuff from his car. ( seven chocolate cupcakes to be exact, but I digress.) As he nears me, I can see his expression stiffen, then stretch back as in a wind tunnel and then finally fall. There is that 'Oh Christ...what have you done?' look. Immediately I say "Is it too much? I was trying for my original coloring......" He just sighs and looks away and says "Yes. it is too much. It looks like you applied henna to your face." All I could think of were those Indian girls with tattoos on their fingers and suddenly felt a spiritual link.
I immediately knew I would have to change the color. I trusted Raphael's opinion on this one. After a few "It freaks me out when I look at you" comments it was time to cover it with my usual dye. The first attempt didn't work and it just took it down a shade. The second time I plastered on a kind of chocolate mud concoction and it seemed to do the trick. Of course, now my skin was burning from several applications and the beard would be so intensely dark that its appearance might possibly be more obvious than the red. I didn't care. This was my fourth application of dye in 6 hours. My face felt like a hot sidewalk and I was looking rather sinister but the Leaf Erickson look had disappeared.
The beard ended up the color of raw umber mixed with dried blood. All I need is a powder blue leisure suit and a lot of gold jewelry and I could sell watches at a flea market out of my mini-van. It seems a lesson was learned. If you are going to amateurishly betray youth, at least have a back up plan like two weeks in Costa Rica where no one will know you. Maybe I should try extensions next. They would at least cover the creases on my ear lobes and distract from the gray that will eventually reappear in my beard. A monocle might be a nice touch. I could add a tam. Either way, I would welcome some white hairs back on my jaw line. It is distracting as Raphael talks to me while his eyes dart back and forth from my eyes to my blackened facial growth. I feel bad for him. For the next several days he will be waking up next to Kevin, the community theatre actor face. Aging be cursed!
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
To Corolla with love
I got my car painted.....
It needed it. The exterior was looking p-r-e-t-t-y bad. The hood was uber oxidizing and the back bumper was cracking. I had gotten the trunk and top 'spot' painted at different times in the last three years but the fade and breakdown was taking over almost everywhere.
When I bought the car in August of 2006, the body inside and out were in very good shape. An elderly woman from Century Village had owned it. The car only had 14,000 miles on it! It was a 2001 and looked brand new. She literally only drove it from her complex to Publix and back. The engine was spotless. I had just totaled my 96 Saab in a smashup and I had to act fast with the insurance money available. When I found her car it seemed like the practical thing to do. It was not glamorous (it's the most basic Toyota Corolla ever made.) The only extras were a cup holder and a little dash bin where I could keep toll change.)
The insurance check paid for it in entirety and I haven't had a car payment in almost 4 years. The vehicle purrs like a top and is virtually maintenance free. The only problem has been that the previous owner let it 'bake' in the Florida sun. She never waxed it or protected the interior from heat and exposure. Consequently, the deterioration of its exterior was hastened. I tried to stay on top of it but there had been too much early damage. The molding along the interior door jams succumbed to solar stress from almost the beginning. It started pulling away within months of my purchase. Headliners don't do well in this climate either. Material began hanging and pulling loose. I no sooner got it fixed when the door upholstery shrunk from its confines and started peeling off. I had to pin it. Luckily the dash never cracked and I am amazed at its resiliency.
For almost a year, the car's exterior has accelerated its bleach. Wax jobs helped a tiny bit but within days the oxidizing looked like Rorschach test blots. It was apparent I would have to get a total paint job at some point. I was also becoming increasingly embarrassed. To add insult to injury, my headlights were getting that filmy look and getting increasingly cloudy. In short, I was somewhat humiliated to be seen in my car. K Bruce was officially driving a 'beater' and my ego was taking a pounding (no pun intended.) Every time I pulled into a spot next to a shiny car of any caste, mortification welled up. I felt like a shabby old goat cart on radials.
The first time I picked up Raphael for a date I made sure it was dark with little street light. I was worried what he might think a 52 year old was doing in such a vehicle. It would take a while for him to completely understand what a gem this car was. It did look like something a uni-bomber would park in front of his double wide. My persuasive abilities eventually proved to him this car was an Infinity in homeless car clothing. I think the Corolla's incredibly efficient air conditioning convinced him first. His is just OK in his 08 fancy Beetle.
For most of my adult life, I had always had an attractive car or at least an interesting one. I prided myself in what I drove. The Corolla had been bought for prudent reasons and nothing else. It was basic, bland and dependable. I was going to be really responsible and not go for image. I succeeded. One time I parked it at the Ft. Lauderdale airport garage and ran in, not paying close attention to what level and color I left. When I returned, it took me over an hour to find my car. There were at least 10 that looked exactly like it. It was one of the most anonymous autos ever produced. I think I could drive it across the White House lawn and no one would notice.
In a single day it is possible to see at least 50 gray, 'custom' 2001 Corolla sedans on any piece of asphalt. Their utilitarianism is pervasive. They are like the practical shoe of the car world; a pair of colorless Crocks with a steering wheel. This is both good and bad. The good is proof that this car is still running and a gazillion drivers continue operating them. The bad is that their generic appearance makes yours hard to spot in a Target parking lot. Sometimes there might be an identical three parked in a row. I can't tell you how many times I have tried to get in the wrong one and cursed my key for not working. Now I know what Vespa operators must have felt like in the Rome of the 1950s.
In the past I have owned the previously mentioned Saab ( a beautiful quirky, convertible but that constantly whined with ills), a handsome silver Passat, a cherry red Mazda MX-6 ( I loved this one. It was sexy and ergonomic), a sharp and nimble Bronco II, a vintage red and white 1959 Edsel station wagon that was in pristine condition (it was like navigating the Carpathia), a Fiero two seater (adorable but probably not too safe if a semi had hit me) and a sweet, little 74 crimson Mustang II. In college I had a Vega station wagon. It was cute but the clutch went out on it twice in six months. I think it was one of the cheapest cars every produced. Prior to that was my first car: A 69 VW Beetle that was white with a red interior. I truly loved this car even when I had to push it to get it started towards the end of my ownership. The Bug was even a bit fancier than my Corolla. It had a sun roof.
So, given I have owned more alluring cars, none have been as dependable and trustworthy as my current Toyota Wonder Machine. It may be boring but it is a fabulous piece of engineering. I can honestly say that it continues to be the most reliable car of my life. That is why I invested in its paint job. And, I am not stopping. Plans are to continue with some other cosmetic improvements like wheel covers and upholstery fixes. The car costs me nothing and as long as I change the oil and do yearly maintenance; who knows how long it will last. I would be a fool to sell it and get something newer and more luxurious. It only has 42,000 miles and is 9 years old. (Kind of likc Noah Cyrus without the knee high leather boots. (See www.rightcelebrity.com and gag....)
Eventually I will tire of my prudent wisdom and want to move onto something more satisfying. Even then I may keep the thing and use it as a back up ride. This little car of the masses continues to prove its brilliance. Abandoning it too soon would be harsh. I respect its undying cooperation.
Slapping on a new coat of dawn gray was the least I could do for it. Never has there been a more faithful servant with cloth seats and a cup holder.
It needed it. The exterior was looking p-r-e-t-t-y bad. The hood was uber oxidizing and the back bumper was cracking. I had gotten the trunk and top 'spot' painted at different times in the last three years but the fade and breakdown was taking over almost everywhere.
When I bought the car in August of 2006, the body inside and out were in very good shape. An elderly woman from Century Village had owned it. The car only had 14,000 miles on it! It was a 2001 and looked brand new. She literally only drove it from her complex to Publix and back. The engine was spotless. I had just totaled my 96 Saab in a smashup and I had to act fast with the insurance money available. When I found her car it seemed like the practical thing to do. It was not glamorous (it's the most basic Toyota Corolla ever made.) The only extras were a cup holder and a little dash bin where I could keep toll change.)
The insurance check paid for it in entirety and I haven't had a car payment in almost 4 years. The vehicle purrs like a top and is virtually maintenance free. The only problem has been that the previous owner let it 'bake' in the Florida sun. She never waxed it or protected the interior from heat and exposure. Consequently, the deterioration of its exterior was hastened. I tried to stay on top of it but there had been too much early damage. The molding along the interior door jams succumbed to solar stress from almost the beginning. It started pulling away within months of my purchase. Headliners don't do well in this climate either. Material began hanging and pulling loose. I no sooner got it fixed when the door upholstery shrunk from its confines and started peeling off. I had to pin it. Luckily the dash never cracked and I am amazed at its resiliency.
For almost a year, the car's exterior has accelerated its bleach. Wax jobs helped a tiny bit but within days the oxidizing looked like Rorschach test blots. It was apparent I would have to get a total paint job at some point. I was also becoming increasingly embarrassed. To add insult to injury, my headlights were getting that filmy look and getting increasingly cloudy. In short, I was somewhat humiliated to be seen in my car. K Bruce was officially driving a 'beater' and my ego was taking a pounding (no pun intended.) Every time I pulled into a spot next to a shiny car of any caste, mortification welled up. I felt like a shabby old goat cart on radials.
The first time I picked up Raphael for a date I made sure it was dark with little street light. I was worried what he might think a 52 year old was doing in such a vehicle. It would take a while for him to completely understand what a gem this car was. It did look like something a uni-bomber would park in front of his double wide. My persuasive abilities eventually proved to him this car was an Infinity in homeless car clothing. I think the Corolla's incredibly efficient air conditioning convinced him first. His is just OK in his 08 fancy Beetle.
For most of my adult life, I had always had an attractive car or at least an interesting one. I prided myself in what I drove. The Corolla had been bought for prudent reasons and nothing else. It was basic, bland and dependable. I was going to be really responsible and not go for image. I succeeded. One time I parked it at the Ft. Lauderdale airport garage and ran in, not paying close attention to what level and color I left. When I returned, it took me over an hour to find my car. There were at least 10 that looked exactly like it. It was one of the most anonymous autos ever produced. I think I could drive it across the White House lawn and no one would notice.
In a single day it is possible to see at least 50 gray, 'custom' 2001 Corolla sedans on any piece of asphalt. Their utilitarianism is pervasive. They are like the practical shoe of the car world; a pair of colorless Crocks with a steering wheel. This is both good and bad. The good is proof that this car is still running and a gazillion drivers continue operating them. The bad is that their generic appearance makes yours hard to spot in a Target parking lot. Sometimes there might be an identical three parked in a row. I can't tell you how many times I have tried to get in the wrong one and cursed my key for not working. Now I know what Vespa operators must have felt like in the Rome of the 1950s.
In the past I have owned the previously mentioned Saab ( a beautiful quirky, convertible but that constantly whined with ills), a handsome silver Passat, a cherry red Mazda MX-6 ( I loved this one. It was sexy and ergonomic), a sharp and nimble Bronco II, a vintage red and white 1959 Edsel station wagon that was in pristine condition (it was like navigating the Carpathia), a Fiero two seater (adorable but probably not too safe if a semi had hit me) and a sweet, little 74 crimson Mustang II. In college I had a Vega station wagon. It was cute but the clutch went out on it twice in six months. I think it was one of the cheapest cars every produced. Prior to that was my first car: A 69 VW Beetle that was white with a red interior. I truly loved this car even when I had to push it to get it started towards the end of my ownership. The Bug was even a bit fancier than my Corolla. It had a sun roof.
So, given I have owned more alluring cars, none have been as dependable and trustworthy as my current Toyota Wonder Machine. It may be boring but it is a fabulous piece of engineering. I can honestly say that it continues to be the most reliable car of my life. That is why I invested in its paint job. And, I am not stopping. Plans are to continue with some other cosmetic improvements like wheel covers and upholstery fixes. The car costs me nothing and as long as I change the oil and do yearly maintenance; who knows how long it will last. I would be a fool to sell it and get something newer and more luxurious. It only has 42,000 miles and is 9 years old. (Kind of likc Noah Cyrus without the knee high leather boots. (See www.rightcelebrity.com and gag....)
Eventually I will tire of my prudent wisdom and want to move onto something more satisfying. Even then I may keep the thing and use it as a back up ride. This little car of the masses continues to prove its brilliance. Abandoning it too soon would be harsh. I respect its undying cooperation.
Slapping on a new coat of dawn gray was the least I could do for it. Never has there been a more faithful servant with cloth seats and a cup holder.
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