50 Shades of Old

        Three words:
        Grey Chest Hairs!
        I found three of them. On my chest. Grey hairs. They’re definitely grey! Hairs. Grey hairs. Right there on my chest. (Near the bypass incision scar, oddly enough. I don’t know if that means anything, but there you go.) I found them a couple days ago. On my chest! Grey stinking hairs, dammit!
        I don’t have many grey hairs on my head. It’s receding, my hair. Up the sides, sure. But there’s still a bunch left and they aren’t grey for the most part; they’re my natural, plain brownish color. I guess I’ve been greying at the temples for a while but I like to think it makes me look dapper. Nobody gets nicknames like The Silver Fox because their chest hair makes them distinguished.
        Grey chest hairs just make you look old.
        Not that anyone sees them. Almost nobody sees me with my shirt off anymore. My hanging out at the beach days are pretty much behind me. You’ll never catch me stripped to the waist at “The Big Game.” There’s the local pool. I go there a couple days out of the year. Those people will see my three new additions. But I’m not one of those walk-around-awkwardly-naked-at-the-health-club guys, the ones that like to wait until they’ve stripped down before they chat you up. So, really, it’s just me who sees the color of the hair on my chest.
        I guess I could try that stuff: Just For Men? The stuff with the sports guys who are less pathetic with young babes once they’ve taken care of their grey hair… I don’t know if they have Just For Men’s Chest Hair, though. I don’t remember them mentioning it in the commercials. I’d have to look into it.
        I know it’s not that big of a deal, just one more thing. But— I can’t help thinking of it like a signal somehow. Like that pop-up doo-hickey on frozen turkeys, the little red thingy that pops up telling you:
        This turkey’s done!