Mirrors, who needs them?

This has been a bad week for one approaching his 50th Birthday. As an adolescent I endured the pain of looking younger than my age, but on this side of the age divide, the experience has been much more pleasant. A two year programme of regular exercise, never a part of my life to date has helped, but in the main the appearance of youth is genetic and not the consequence of this salve or that balm. This week, the genetic coding began to break down and one was faced with the unwelcome shape of things to come.

It began, rather innocently enough, with a haircut. In the middle of Chengdu, I found a barber shop which looked clean even, even if the owner’s own hair style was a little dramatic. I asked for no more than my usual “not too long” haircut. Apart from one moment of dread when he seemed to shaping my reluctant mop in imitation of his own Mohican, I was happy with the results. In the latter stages of this transformation, a pile of my shorn locks formed on the towel in front of me. Being very short-sighted, I could not be sure, but there seemed to be rather too much silver among the expected brown. Confirmation came when my barber asked, altogether too nonchalantly for my liking, “did I want to have my hair dyed?” Preferring denial to painful clarity, I decided I must have misunderstood his heavy Sichuan accent and waving off the unwelcome invitation. I paid his fee and rushed back to the comfort of the office.

Alas, no comfort was to be had. Mr. Han, our zealous reporter put paid to that. He is ordinarily a charming fellow and very professional. Without my knowing, however, he chose to include me in a feature on rice distribution. Flattering perhaps, but when I saw that I was being described as being “not a young man anymore” I began to fear for the worst. The image of a stubborn old codger insisting on carrying rice bags too heavy for him, and then falling asleep in the corner, wasn’t quite the “spin” I wanted to offer the world. In a country with few priests over 40, I am used to being the relatively elderly lemon, but the description was too absolute for my liking. If you want to read the toned down version of the original piece, you can find it here. Mr. Han is definitely off my Christmas card list.

I emerged from these experiences somewhat chastened. The incidents bothered me, but, more than that, it bothers me that they bother me. I affect a lack of vanity, and actually believed that I could check that one off my personal list of deadly sins. It is more than a little disconcerting to realise that I am like the rest of men (and women) in this as in most other matters. I never cease to be amazed just how Christ is using my experience of China to present me with myself as really am, and not as I would like to be. Self knowledge is a wonderful thing and I sometimes pray the prayer “from hidden faults acquit me”. I had in mind, though, a gentle acquittal whispered during meditation but this week, I got to see myself all too clearly in a mirror held by a Mohican coiffed barber and an over-enthusiastic reporter. Somebody up there has a sense of humor, but excuse me if my laughter is a little forced this time. Pass the Grecian Formula 2000!