"I wear bangs because it makes me look younger," Gi said to me one day.
"But you're only 26. Are we concerned about that already?"
The silence after, meant yes, I guessed.
"People tell me I look 17 or 18 and I'm going to be 20 in December," he quipped gaily.
"Dude, seriously?" I asked flabbergasted.
Call me a hippie or whatever, but age has never really crossed my mind as a problem. I guess that's because, at the ripe old age of 22, I still get carded for 18 and over establishments. I still feel weird about truant cops looking at me extra hard when I'm out and about during school hours. But, I was never Concerned. I told the latter person I can't wait to get older and all the wisdom I will acquire over the years.
My family has good genes, though. At 60, my dad's skin was still smooth with gentle creases and lots of beauty marks. He said each year, they came more and more. He only had gray in his beard. My aunt, around the same age, had skin like a baby's bottom. Her hair was a beautiful silver gray that was a stark contrast to her cappuccino complexion. My mother, now 55 or 56 (I can't accurately remember people's ages anymore) is gracefully growing old. She has pronounced laugh lines and slight crow's feet, but I think it makes her more beautiful. Her face tells a story in comparison to mine who's waiting for the opening credits to finish.
"I think this country is very shallow and has looked at aging as the point before death instead of as something that happens during life," I said to him.
"What are you talking about? Aren't you American?"
"Yes, which is why I can look at it objectively. "
He didn't understand. I mean after all he is 20, but he looks like he could be 17.
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