I’m looking forward to this Halloween for it is the one day a year I can hide my head behind a disguise without appearing to be a criminal.

I never considered myself a vain person, but now I’m facing a crisis of confidence being in public.

I’ve reached a time in my life when I shudder seeing my face in a mirror.  One of the off-putting side effects of going on a vacation and staying in hotels is viewing yourself in brightly lighted mirrors (unlike the dimly lit ones at home) that showcase your age.  It is a startling revelation to see:

• the wrinkles that suddenly appear around one’s eyes and mouth.
• the graying tone of one’s skin.
• the lack of hair on one’s head.

For me, I have had a receding hairline for a while now.  But in more recent years, my hair is not just disappearing—it’s practically gone. 

It brings to mind Sylvia Plath’s poem “Mirror” that personifies a mirror commenting factually on what it sees peering into it—an old woman.

“I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful‚
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.”

And that is how I feel.  I no longer recognize the old man who stares back at me.  I see a drooping face of sallow flesh, resulting in a perpetual frown.

Not even my hazel eyes can light up this reflection.  It is a “cold water splashed on one’s face” moment that I cannot escape.

I look older, much older than I feel.  And it troubles me for no matter how energetic I may feel, my face betrays my passions for those who come across me.

For the first time I’m contemplating options that I have resisted.

• Dying one’s hair.  The number one problem with this route is that I simply have wisps left on top of my much too much visible scalp.  I’d in essence be coloring my skin reddish brown, not my gray straws.
• Growing facial hair.  It’s a way of re-directing others’ eyesight from the top of one’s head to the bottom though some may question the quality of one’s handlebar mustache, soul patch or Santa beard.
• Rogaine.  My hair is so thin now that even if new follicles grew, it wouldn’t be enough.
• Wearing a toupee.  How do I put a wig on my head and act like nothing’s different about me to those who know me?

The quickest solution I’ve come up with is wearing hats.  It’s relatively inexpensive, has nothing to do with chemicals and is instantaneously a complete cover-up on the grotesquerie on my head.  And I could wear a hat all year long without calling attention to myself.  Except it makes me look dorky.  But at this point, I’d rather appear odd than old.