Recently, I was reminded of the 1971 hit song “Signs” while rummaging through a box containing old photos of myself and others.
I’m always shocked when I come across pictures of myself from back in the day, with my normal reaction being “Is that really me?” The signs of change are startling and numerous.
For example, how the size of my forehead has dramatically increased over the years must be a sign of something. My wife says that the difference between then and now is caused by a receding hairline, but I argue that my brain has increased in size, thus my forehead has grown to accommodate it.
If the photo is a sign that my receding hairline exposes more forehead area, so what? After all, for every hair that falls out of my head, a new one pops up on my nose.
Sure, when I was young and mentioned “my hair,” I referred to a thick, Robert Plant-like mop. But now “my hair” refers to a few extremely long strands of hair which I spend a great deal of time strategically winding around my head.
One advantage to this otherwise worrying sign is that, whereas I used to need a big heavy brush to style my hair, now I can easily comb it with a toothpick. Another advantage is no need to wrestle with a cumbersome blow dryer to dry it anymore.
One well-placed sneeze by my black Lab does the trick. And although I now get a senior discount on haircuts, I feel that with only five oops, make that four hairs left, I still feel like I’m getting ripped off.
Besides my hair, there are other concerning signs of change—my mail for instance. Use to be I would get notices to subscribe to Playboy Magazine and offers on romantic cruises. Now the mail consists of weekly deals on hearing aids.
Then there are the offers on funeral home tours, ads that I can only read with the help of reading glasses which magnify the words “Nearly Dearly Departed.”
