I don’t have a haircut with a fancy name. No mullets or mohawks here. Just a do that can best be described as “short”.
I wear shorts, but nothing fancy there either. Not the short-longs that became fashionable in the early ’90s, the ones that sat pointlessly below the knee, however pleasing that might have sounded to a conservative girls school principal.
Nor do I wear the short shorts, the ones that became fashionable in the ’70s. I’m not bothered by revealing a little bit of leg, but I’d be forever fearful of revealing a jewelette to an unsuspecting onlooker, having crawled from the safety of its well-intentioned underwear.
Shirts are generally of the buttoned variety. Nothing worse than an aging nipple resting on the side of a muscle shirt. Singlets are better left for the garden, although I suspect even Wanda is more easily repulsed by my state of undress these days.
I do own thongs and sandals, but as a rule the public display is limited to two choices – boat shoes for casual outings and black lace-ups to accompany my trousers.
The biggest decision I ever had to make with shoes was whether to adopt a pointy or round shoe. I figured the rounded version had a longer lifespan.
I write not to defend my dress code, rather to establish that I’m a dull, wearisome soul whose biggest fashion statement might be a splash of colour on a polo.
Unlike the gent I spotted the other day, I suspect aged in his 60s, whose life stopped in 1993.
Grey hair tied in a short pony tail, those short-longs I was talking about in a washed denim, faded concert t-shirt from U2’s Joshua Tree concert tour at ANZ Stadium in November, thongs that looked like they were made from some sort of dyed rope, and a silver stud in his left ear.
Granted, the stud along with a tattoo on the flabby underside of his left arm have returned to fashion.
Yes, I was a little envious that he’d been to that concert, but I wondered what happens to people. At what point in their life do they stop moving with the times?
At what point do they rebel like they’ve never revolted before, to turn their nose up on society, and say: “I’ve had enough with your desire for change. I’m staying right here. In the heart of 1993, never to progress again.”
We all do it. There comes a time when we stick to the same music from an era we deem to be the good old days, when we search the aisles looking for a small jar of Vegemite because that’s all we need, when we can’t understand why milk no longer comes in a bottle.
For me, I determined I’d accompany retirement with neutral tones, low expectations and a music tape which spanned four of my favourite decades.
It’s not, of course, a cassette tape as such. It’s on my computer. The music that is.
The clothes are on me. And I’m very comfortable in them. As I’m sure my friend from 1993 is as he flicks his brylcreemed ponytail from the side of his mouth so it sits tidily above the picture of Bono’s faded forehead on the back of his shirt.
Bravo I say, to all those who’ve found their happy place.
