Old is an inevitable privilege

He took the razor in his hands, shaking ever so slightly with wear and age. There were easier ways to do this and although this may be a mistake he knew it needed to be real. Anyway, it wouldn't be hard like it used to be. The years had seen to that. His frailty did frustrate him somewhat though. Although he may no longer be the strapping young man he once was on the outside, his soul was still acid inside.

How he'd let himself get this far from who he was he'll never really understand. Maybe it was the life, the children the love. These were distractions. Distractions he'd never trade for anything, a whole life away. Distractions none the less. When she had gone. When she slipped away those years before, stolen from him in the night by the unavoidable side effect of life he was broken in the deepest way. She shone light in his eyes and made him show his teeth in happiness not rage for the first time and every time for all the years after that. She gave the angry young man a hope he didn't even believe existed. She was an anchor in that storm but now the chain was cut and he drifted at the whim of the seas.

The water wasn't quite warm enough and when he slipped his hand in it shook more than normal. A shiver mostly from the cold but partly from anticipation. He was going to do this. Take some control again. He lifted the straight razor to his neck, looked in the mirror at seventy three years of life lived. The pause was a just a little goodbye to who he had become. The anitcipation before a mask is removed. Underneath, would it be what he thought or had the years taken that too?

The razor glided across the side of his head. Careful not to shake too much and clip an ear but it was easier than he remembered. No resistance, the hair not a forrest now but more a sparse collection of saplings. His skin stung just a little but the razor burn was welcome. It was familiar. Then the other side. Even. Perfect. He washed and then placed the razor back in its pouch and put it in the drawer beneath the sink. That drawer used to have so much more in it. No matter how much he put in there now it always seemed half empty. A lot of things did these days.

The young man at the store had laughed to himself when ringing up the hair gel. He probably thought it was for a grandson or maybe this confused old man had bought the wrong thing. At least he didn't try to help. Nobody should try to help. Old is not a disability, it's an inevitability and a privilege. Many people don't get that chance so people should mind there business and let those who have lived live until it's over.

It's surprising how much hair he still had. Not tall like it once was but the ruins still let you know what the tower once looked like. His forehead had very few wrinkles considering. Really, if he looked at himself without his glasses he could still see the punk rock in his eyes. The face of a man against the system. A berserker of ideas, whirling and attacking. He was still there, he'd just been away for a while.

His back was sore after lacing his boots. It took longer than he remembered and honestly, it hurt his hands more. He looked in the full length mirror just to the left of the door near her side of the bed. His army jacket fit a bit big and so did the tshirt underneath but it gave him the look of fullness. He approved. He looked to where she lay when she left. She was there and in his head she smiled. She would approve to. He turned off the television. The sounds of protest echoed in his head for a few seconds after the screen went blank. He could see his city on the news. He'd take the bus to where the people needed him. Where he needed to be.

He looked for his spray paint and handkerchief for his mouth in case the gas started stinging his lungs. She gave him that soft red square of fabric so many years gone now and it was just that little bit of her coming with him still keeping him safe. Like always. He liked that. Not everything has to be left behind. Jacket on, pockets full, he picked up the small but heavy brown paper wrapped package by the door. Must not shake it too much.

As if goodbye, he looked around the house. It was a goodbye in a way he thought. No matter what came of the day the man leaving would not return. At least not as he was. When he left he would no longer be just an old man who had lost his hope, he would be what he once was. He would be young again even though in a body that had taken him through a lifetime. He opened the door, felt the air on his freshly shorn head and smiled. That's familiar.

As he walked slowly down the garden path to the gate at the end he knew he was leaving one home but going back to another.