DEPARTMENT:

Thoughts of Aging

Getting old has a way of creeping up on you. You know how you think you’re maintaining quite well, passing for maybe five or ten years younger than you actually are? Then one day some charming child, thinking they’re being respectful, addresses you as “auntie,” and you realize you’ve become a kupuna when you weren’t paying attention.

Most of the time I think I’m breezing along being sassy and current. Not changing much. But then there are the flashes of clarity, or epiphanies, if you will. Like the other week when I was in my favorite salon getting my roots dyed and adding some lovely blond highlights.

As I patiently waited for the chemicals to do their magic, all the while leafing through magazines to check on the progress of Brad and Angelina’s relationship, I realized that three different women had quietly slipped in and out to have their eyebrows waxed. This is something new, and it seems to be a real trend. No more of that nasty old-fashioned plucking. That pain. It seemed like a good idea to me too. I decided to try it.

Which brings me to the wider subject of hair. When you’re old you have none. I used to be a hairy person. Someone recently told me it had to do with hormones and pheromones—you know, the stuff that makes you as sexy as a wild animal. Well, suffice it to say, all my hair has disappeared.

Nuuanu resident Kaui Philpotts ponders the pluses of growing old.

I now shave my legs every two months for old times sake. The delicate little fuzz on my upper lip has disappeared as well. And if I could actually see under my armpits and the other places we will not discuss here, I bet it’s pretty sparse as well. Why didn’t anyone tell me this would happen? Hair, however, does have a nasty habit of appearing these days in the most unseemly places–like out of your nose or on your chin when you are least expecting it.

I will throw in at this point that I have given up on sleeveless and halter tops altogether and now sport an unattractive “farmer’s tan” in the shower. I no longer wear shorts, except on the hottest days while walking around my neighborhood for exercise, but I am safely disguised with my un-made-up face and a snappy baseball cap.

There are other signs that I am moving on rapidly through life. I received a holiday greeting last year from an address I didn’t recognize. It was one of those photo greetings I just love. In the photo was an elegant, slightly eccentric-looking couple bundled up—she with an outlandish hat and he with a dashing gray beard, standing in front of a fountain in some unnamed European city.

Who are these people? I wondered, squinting while holding the card within centimeters of my nose. Totally stumped, I went to get a magnifying glass in the hope it would help me identify them. He certainly looked vaguely familiar.

Then suddenly I recognized the face behind the crinkly eyes and gray hair. It was all I could do not to scream. There he was, my first husband, whom I hadn’t seen in years! The man I married at 19! The carefree young man with the Lambretta motor scooter, long blond hair and devilish English trench coat!

Time does have a way of marching on. But it doesn’t make me sad. Instead, I’ve never felt freer to do what I like, say or not say what I like, and enjoy life every day. Life really is very short, and we have a way of wasting it with things that don’t matter a fig.

I have come around to believing that youth is “wasted on the young” and that their beauty comes not from lovely physical features, but instead from the possibilities that lie ahead of them.
Ain’t life just great!—Kaui Philpott.

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