Yesterday while walking by a store selling shoes, an employee asked me if I had any children who went to my old high school. I didn’t acknowledge him at all while he said it, as I was already on my way away from the display of sparkly shoes—we all have our vices, don’t judge me—but it sank in before I rounded the next turn. How old did he think I really was? (I should probably mention that I was wearing a sweatshirt embellished with the logo and name of my former high school. I know, I’m too old to do this—but it fits well and it was cold outside, never mind the fact that I’ve been out of high school for a few years. They only thing I’m clinging to here is warmth.) A friend assured me that I didn’t look that old, but I can’t help but think otherwise. Perhaps I don’t look like I’m almost 40, but I know that I look older than almost 23.
I’m not upset about these things. After all, me and my weirdly shaped gigantic head are going to ride off into the sunset some day without all of this flighty hair that couldn’t even stick around for the hard parts of my life. (I started noticing my follicles dying before I even turned 18.) My hair is only getting easier to maintain, while most of yours is a frizzy hot mess—I just keep mine as short as my expectations for it and lead a happy life not having to worry about how full my hair should be. That shit isn’t coming back, and I’m OK with that.
But do I really look like I’m old enough to have kids that could be in high school? Absolutely not. Pay attention, Kid.
P.S. I’m starting to wonder if I’m alone in the world with my dog and my cat, I’ve been on hold for 45 minutes. Is there anybody out there?