P. D. Clifton

I’m staring at myself in the bathroom mirror.

I’m about to trim the unruly nasal hairs sticking out of my nostrils, with a pair of nail scissors.

Except… I can’t see my nasal hairs properly. They’re completely out of focus, however much I peer at them.

So I go to our bedroom, put my comfy reading glasses on, and return to the bathroom.

I can now see my nasal hairs perfectly.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Gone.

I look down at the snipped nasal hairs nestling in the white bathroom sink, then back up at myself – still wearing the reading glasses I had to don to manage this most prosaic of tasks. The glasses are something I still haven’t quite got used to. I was prescribed them last year, having never worn glasses before.

How has it come to this? I wonder. Trimming my nasal hairs? And having to wear glasses to do this? Is this what getting old is all about?

This is when I remember… it’s my 50^th birthday in two months.

Fuck!

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