Three
Texture reports before the mirror does
Run a hand back through it and the fingers report before the mirror does. The
softness has gone off at the ends, the body gives less, and there is a coarser note
that was not in there at forty. Skin changes what it puts out as a man gets older, and
hair comes up through whatever the skin is putting out. That part still takes
instruction from outside.
Golden Oil is nine ingredients and no water: eight botanical oils and a Vitamin E,
printed on the label in descending order of concentration, so a man can check the order
against the bottle instead of taking anybody's word for it. Batana carries the most
volume, which almost nothing else in the category does, and coconut is second. Jojoba
is why the blend goes in rather than sitting on top, being the closest thing in the
formula to what the skin already puts out by itself. Castor and batana are the heavy
two and stay up there for hours after a lighter oil has thinned out and gone. Coconut
goes into the fibre rather than coating it. Rosemary and peppermint come eighth and
ninth by concentration, which is where essential oils belong, and they are the two he
can verify without a laboratory, because he can smell them. Vitamin E keeps the other eight from turning,
and with no water in the formula nothing else has to.
Nine ingredients, in an order he can read off the bottle before he
believes a word of this.
Four
Reading thinner is not being less
Sometimes the line itself has settled, and that is a real thing with a real name.
It settled; it did not collapse. What moves after that is not the line, it is the
condition behind it, and the condition is made where the next hair is.
The rest of it he does not say out loud. Light gets through where it did not, the
same head under the same bulb looks like less of it, and he counts nothing and concludes
everything. Hair that is drier and lies flatter takes up less room than hair that is
not, at the identical number of hairs. Reading thinner and being less are two separate
findings, and only one of them is visible in a bathroom mirror.
Every other thing he owns has an age printed on it somewhere. The sport has a
veterans' bracket. The insurance has a band that moves against him on a birthday. The
shelf he walks past says age-defying on it, which quietly tells a man he is defending
something and that the defence has a closing date. The condition of skin has never
carried an upper bracket, and there is no upper limit printed anywhere on this bottle
either. A dermatologist does not stop at sixty, a dentist does not stop at seventy, and
nothing about looking after a square foot of skin gets less true the longer he has had
it. Every bracket, including the last one.
Not all of what happens on that square foot is up for negotiation. Inheritance is
not. Age is not. What he takes for his blood pressure
is not, and neither is the year he spent ill. Skin is the item on that list a man can
reach from the outside, and it is the only one this bottle has anything to do with.
Which is also why there is no ranking in any of this, and no lucky one. Men of the
same age are in
different states on the same morning, none of them ahead of another, and the terms do
not change between them: the same 90 days, and the same three things weighed at the end
of them.
Nobody printed an upper age on this one. Every other shelf in the shop
printed one somewhere.
The fifth arrives with the colour.