Recently while looking into the mirror it occurred to me that the glistening locks of hair were not the results of the new conditioner I was using but the silver tint of gray hair! Me? Gray hair? It seemed preposterous. I shared this revelation with my wife who marveled that I was just noticing it—apparently I’ve had gray hair for a while.

Really?

I studied the new coloration for a moment with some amusement, staring at my own seasoned visage—not just the shiny new strands but some creases and scars, some spots and a receding hair line; crow’s feet around the eyes, extra “bits” here and there.  Was it at this point in life that I’m supposed to freak out?

While locked in a stare at the image in the mirror I suddenly remembered looking at the same face thirty years previous on a particular day in June. I was fifteen.  My face told a much different story: not of getting old but of not getting old. Greasy strands of hair stood so sparse on my head I could see my scalp like a mountain in wintertime when the missing foliage reveals the ridge line. My lips and mouth were cut and crusty red with hundreds of sores– a bizarre side effect of a chemotherapy drug. It was excruciating to drink water let alone eat food. So there  I was in the hospital with an IV in my arm and isolated due to a lowered immunity. The trip to the bathroom required some maneuvering of the IV pole and an immodest hospital gown. And there in the mirror I caught a terrifying glimpse of someone: a freak. I had hit bottom. The youthful ambitions of being popular, rich and a rock star were a empty pursuit for others to entertain.  Would I be handed a billion dollars and my own TV show at that moment my net worth would still have been zero. I had almost forgotten that image…that boy in the mirror… long ago..so long ago………

But now, today, amazingly, I stand in the mirror with gray hair, male pattern baldness and all the honorable badges of middle age.

So what’s the problem?