The old man could only do so much. And some days not even that.
Trying something new, he was seeking to develop a work ethic. Maybe become a male model, silver man candy. Everybody said that. Okay, perhaps not everybody. The young redhead, that was enough and more than he could handle.
He was also thinking about becoming a beatnik. Is it too late, he wondered.
Finally decided to start a speak-easy. Sit in the corner and write shit nobody will ever read. Let somebody else run the place. Make sure they have a work ethic.
They had been binge-watching The Vikings and then moved on to House Of Cards. So, the old man was feeling both feisty and diabolical.
The old man had been waiting. And waiting. Waiting. Finally, the young redhead couldn’t stifle herself any longer. Mister Sweetie, that’s what she called him when she wished to recall particularly blissful times, what are you doing with your face?
The old man had been busy expanding his beard. And it was starting to look really bad like an middle-aged lady trying to grow her original color back.
Told her he wanted to get his hair cut just like Ragnar Lothbrok. After all, the old man is Viking-American.
No problem, she said. But if you do that, absolutely you have to get your head tattooed just like his. She was guessing he was too pussy. She was right.
So the old man decided to grow his beard, grow it uniquely.
The young redhead already offered amazement he could grow a little beard and cover two big wrinkles. Women can’t do that, she said. Some men even get better looking as they age.
It’s a low bar, he told her.
The old man was lean and fit and still his hairline was receding north and still his cheeks were headed in the opposite direction. He had feared since the 1950s he might end up looking like Broderick Crawford. But with a squeakier voice. Steps must be taken.
If he couldn’t look like Ragnar, maybe he could grow a beard, like dropping a bristly dune of snow over his jowls.
Hopefully, that would draw attention away from the crinkly hair sprouting out his ears.