Getting Older

I don't mind aging. That's why I live out here in southern Oregon. I don't miss the glamor of the city. At one point in life I was good looking enough to disguise my hillbilly true self, but paint wears to the metal and the framework is evident. I didn't want to play the game all the time.
Underneath my handsome face and cool demeanor, after you dug through layers of hardened, tough, sculpted muscle, and compassionate gentle understanding, The roots were North Carolina Blueridge mountain. I am Grandpa's white, underachieving, little red-headed stepchild, who was just happy to be there.
I was innocent. I was the only kid in school whom looked like Opie on Andy of Mayberry, And my Grandpappy was from North Carolina! I walked around the halls of Joseph Bonnheim elementary singing Beach Boy songs. I had a Beatles haircut. My complexion was peaches and cream. I really don't know how I missed the movies with such a strong foundation.
If one grows up without 'fashion', any old clothes is enough. My understanding of clothes was simply what I learned from my small environment. And, of course seeing photos of 'tribe-women' from cultures that did not cover the upper half of the woman's body seemed strange to me just as it does children today. They realize there is a social taboo, and giggle. The 'tribe-woman' doesn't realize the taboo, obviously her attitude on covering the upper half of her torso is different. She probably thinks 'why bother'? Just like I did toward more sophisticated western fashion. Practicality was more important to her (I would guess) just like it was to me.
Covered properly, ready to go! I wasn't aware that plaid pants and checkered shirts didn't go together. When the latest haircut style was a crew-cut with an inch or two of hair left in front, greased back for the little greasy puff look, I let my puff hang. Ironically, it's the style today. Shaved head with bangs hanging in your eyes, or the cut right after the Mohawk with the different colored spikes. I wish that I could say that I was way ahead of my time.Keeping up with the style was difficult for me.
Growing old has no style; you're just old. I remember at seventeen, in pursuit of the perfect look, after an imperfect haircut, I shaved my head. It was1973 and 'shoulder length or longer' was the tune of the day. It didn't catch on then, but fifteen years later everybody was shaving their heads; about the time I got out of the army, but by then I wanted to grow my hair long.
At about thirty, with a naturally occurring bald head, two toddlers and an estranged wife, released by the green machine and allowed to wear whatever I wanted, I desired the glamorous life. But I just couldn't afford it. I wanted to stay young and handsome forever. I wanted enough money to attract the really fine babes, stir the best Gumbo, own the best props, but I didn't hit the lotto. And I sure as hell wasn't going to kill myself to stylishly keep up with the 'seduction of being cool' (although I had a running try for a while).
In my forties I became associated with people who truly 'worry' about the right car, clothes, haircut. They have money and pursue the 'better life'. They won't watch themselves grow old in the mirror. And see the surgeon, the cosmetics counter, the lip-o-suction machine. They'll add lip and lose hip, build breasts and bleach the rest.
At 50 something, I know now that the money is better spent up in these southern Oregon mountains finding true value for time and money... in a functioning toilet, or shower plumbing.
Getting old is fine with me. The alternative is impossible. I will never be "young" again, if youth is defined by years. That which is truly important will be all the sweeter to enjoy as an old man, when I have a better idea of what the qualifications.
Now, at my young age, I feel like the Tribes-woman: I ain't gonna worry about what doesn't occur to me. I'm naturally cool. Next time I see you I'll show you my tits and we can really relax!
Happy Thanksgiving to One and All.