The Days of Grays

It finally happened. I knew it was going to eventually. It’s an unavoidable rite of passage, and unlike other milestones, like a first kiss, or first shave, this particular life event has an ominous quality – a whiff of age, and the future promise of joint pain in a living room that smells strongly of butterscotch candy.

Standing in front of the mirror, gazing at the untrimmed growth on my chinny-chin-chin, I spotted them, peeking out at me innocently betwixt the usual follicles of familiar brown.

Gray hairs. Two of them. Side-by-side and at attention, like well-trained members of a military corps dedicated to overthrowing the regime of careless youth.

Crap.

When you’re young, you look forward to seeing certain signs of aging. One of the hallmarks of childhood is relentless impatience; you hear older kids speak with those deepening voices that sound like the unstable crackle of cellophane, and you think, “Man, my voice is too high.” You see lanky teenagers with peach fuzz over their lips and wispy sideburns hugging their jawline, and think, “Man, my face is too smooth.” Each stepping stone along the path of maturity is a small victory, because rather than enjoy our fleeting childhoods – which only seem fleeting in retrospect – we will ourselves into grown-up status with alarmingly grim determination. The first time I shaved, it was like, “Okay! I’m ready for my cognac and my copy of the Sunday New York Times. Be a dear and fetch my slippers, ma! Tonight I settle in with a cigar and a dirty movie!”

What inevitably happens, of course, is that at some point we cross the threshold from c’mon-hurry-it-up to whoa-slow-it-down. And instead of victories, each crow’s foot or random nose hair is just another of Father Time’s merciless gut punches. He’s a jerk, that guy.

Granted, as markers of age go, gray hair isn’t exactly reliable. It happens to everyone at slightly different stages of life, so it’s not like you can spot someone’s cotton-ball mane and pinpoint exactly how old they are. It’s unique in that sense. Consider other phenomena: If someone is peeking at a dime novel through a pair of bifocals, there’s a pretty good chance the person in question isn’t too far off from a qualified membership to the AARP; a person using a walker to get around is likely an octogenarian. Contrast that with Richard Gere, who I’m pretty sure was graying at the temples while learning how to use the potty, and it’s easy to see how freaking out over two silver follicles can seem a bit over-the-top. It’s not like I need sponge baths from a nurse. Although if the nurse in question is a sultry brunette with a smoky barroom voice, I’d consider it anyway.

But see, what’s alarming about the whole deal is that I’m now in the Gray Club. This is kind of like Fight Club, only there’s no fighting, no Brad Pitt, and everyone’s in bed by ten. So I guess it’s not like Fight Club at all.

The reason Gray Club is so distressing is because it acts as a sort of dividing line. To illustrate what I mean, think about the people and groups who are not in Gray Club: College students, YouTube sensations, trendsetters, Katy Perry, and 98 percent of professional athletes.

Now look at the people who are in the club: College professors, cable access hosts, Floridians, Larry King, and the two percent of professional athletes you wish would just give it up already.

To be clear, this is not to knock Gray Club in any way. There are some truly awesome members of Gray Club. Patrick Stewart. Metallica. Gandalf. Me. You, maybe. Betty White, definitely. Harrison Ford. The list goes on. Far from being a mark of shame, Gray Club can be considered an honor, in a sense; it means you’ve made it, you’ve survived X number of years without choking on a hot dog or getting hit by a van full of meth tweakers. 

Thing is, as inconsequential as admittance to Gray Club actually is, nobody wants their first membership card. It forever cuts us off from the young’uns, with their sparkly belly buttons and carefree shenanigans.

A friend asked me recently if I would consider dying my goatee. I don’t know if I believe in that. The natural look is just more honest; I figure if I’m slowly going white, then I should wear it proudly, defiantly. Besides, it connotes experience, and I’ve always been more comfortable as a grizzled veteran of something rather than a wide-eyed rookie on the make. If I can con people into thinking that I’ve “seen things,” or “been through stuff,” or “been around the block a few times,” this can only work to my advantage. Especially if I’m staring down a gunslinger through the smoky air of a 19th Century frontier saloon. This seems unlikely, but I’m a believer in being prepared.

So yeah, mixed feelings, for sure. Mostly what I’m dreading is the next marker of getting older: Standing in a bathrobe on my front porch and yelling at my neighbors to turn their music down. Hopefully that’s a ways off.

And now I’ve got to go into hiding for a while. Because I’ve broken the first rule of Gray Club: Don’t talk about Gray Club.

Like you didn’t see that one coming.