11-29-03

I met a man yesterday, 80 years old (he proudly proclaimed), at an outfitter's store. He was one of the sales guys. Here's a hint, 80-year old men should never, ever wear toupees. Ever. I don't care that the toupee was grey. It was awry, like a shellacked Persian cat had crawled up on his noggin, and expired after a restless, nightmare-ish night. Little ends and wayward curls stuck up all over his head, and I could see the remnants of his natural hair underneath.

He had on a short-sleeved, Western-style shirt. His arms were sun-splotched, and scabbed. Liver spots marched over his skin.

He had good dentures though, and a smile that hinted at his previous charm. I suspect, in his day, that this gentleman was quite a lady-killer. I was polite, hoping that if I last that long some whippersnapper will play along with me and feed into my fantasy of attractiveness.

Back one. ||||| Forward one.