When I get older losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
I was always proudest of my hair, and merciless to people who’d lost theirs.
I always had a full head of hair, and when I bothered to comb it and groom it properly, it looked pretty good. The rest of me … not so much. But I always had my hair.
Then, one day, I noticed in the mirror that it was getting thinner, and immediately the panic set in. By this time, I was maybe 58 or 59, and I could readily see that there were sections of that head where scalp was starting to become visible.
It’s only become worse. It might not be time for the Rogaine just yet, but now, when I go get it cut, I tell the stylist “I don’t want to see the bald; I see too much bald there.”
To which she kindly reminds me “there’s only so much you can do,” and then proceeds to put this powder in there that camouflages it somewhat.
I always said I’d never do the “comb-over” thing the way my father did, but now I’m not so sure. I’m not ready to come out yet as bald.
If I’ve been out til quarter of three
Would you lock the door?
Will you still need me,
Will you still feed me,’
When I’m 64?
I cannot remember the last time I was out til quarter of three for any reason other than work.
I do remember one night in 1986 partying until dawn. I was a youthful 32, and had performed in a show. The cast party was one for the books, and I ended up watching the Celtics win the NBA championship feeling less than myself.
I can also recall stumbling into my house at 3 a.m. a few times well before I was married, and trying to tiptoe upstairs to my bedroom.
I thought I was home free, when, all of a sudden, out of the darkness came a very solemn, very menacing, “hello?”
It was my mother.
There were a few other times I pushed the nighttime into morning, but not in years. So we don’t have to worry about that.
You’ll be older too
And if you say the word
I could stay with you
I can remember going to my parents’ house for obligatory visits after I got married. There they were. Mom in her recliner; dad in his. Watching the ballgame, or some cooking show, on television. They could be just like the Bickersons sometimes. Or the Honeymooners (a show they both watched, and one they taught me very well how to appreciate, because I still need oxygen after watching Ralph and Ed go at it).
Today, Linda and I sit on opposite ends of the room at night, same as my folks did, watching reruns on MeTV and Hallmark. I think I’ve memorized every Perry Mason episode ever made.
I could be handy, mending a fuse
When the lights go out
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday morning, go for a ride.
I like working with fuses better than circuit breakers, because it’s easier to see when you’ve blown one. Just unscrew it and put the new one in. You have to really look at circuit breakers to see which one’s been tripped. Once the old eyesight starts to go, finding those oh-so-tiny indentations in the breaker switch can be a challenge.
But none of this matters. My knees don’t let me go up and down stairs easily anymore. I live in terror that I’m going to have to go down cellar and reset a breaker.
As for rides, those have always been a big deal in our family. My parents used to drag my sister and me out for Sunday afternoon rides with my grandparents (which would always end up with them buying us ice cream cones). Later, when our son was small, and wound up out of control, we’d put him in the car and go for a ride just to get him to fall asleep.
Then, much later, my parents loved to go on rides up to Hampton Beach, where my grandparents once owned a cottage. Now Linda and I take rides all the time. We just point the car in the general direction of Maine, and often the most interesting thing we do is go to Stonewall Kitchen.
They say that we ultimately turn into our parents. Maybe “they” are right.
Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
Could you ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me
When I’m 64?
Well, it’s not so much kneeling down, it’s getting back up that’s the problem. Earlier in the summer, I fell on the 12th hole at Salem Country Club while following Nick Faldo during his practice round. I needed three guys to help me up. Knee replacements are definitely in my future.
So, so much for digging the weeds.
Every summer we can rent a cottage
In the Isle of Wight, if it’s not too dear
We shall scrimp and save.
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck and Dave.
“Dear,” in this context, means expensive. And since this is Lynn, and not England, Maine will have to do.
And so far, we don’t have any grandchildren. Come on, Andrew. Chop chop.
Send me a postcard, drop me a line
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely what you mean to say,
Yours sincerely, wasting away.
Ye gads, things aren’t that desperate yet. Yeah, I’m losing my hair, and my knees feel like they’re 84 years old, but nobody can accuse me of wasting away.
Give me an answer, Fill in a form,
Mine for evermore.
Will you still need me, Will you still feed me
When I’m 64.
First time I heard this song, I was half-listening to it and thought Paul McCartney was saying “when I’m 6-feet-4,” which is something about which I’ll never have to worry.
And I’m happy to announce that even though I’m sure Linda would like to kick me through the Manning Field goalposts sometimes, she apparently still needs me, and still feeds me. So it’s all good.
It had better be. Today, I turn 64.
