I have been reading  Ian Brown’s Sixty: A Diary of My Sixty-First Year. I don’t remember where I found the book, but given that I am now entering that daunting phase of life, it seemed like something that might be of interest.

I did not read it all, as much of what Brown finds worthy of comment is not my cup of tea. In fact, the main thing I learned from the book—which is good news—is that, as distressed as aging often makes me feel, I am at least handling getting old somewhat better than Brown seems to be. I have my issues and complaints, as surely every member of my immediate family could relate at length. But they are not the serious ones Brown discusses, which seem to be fairly widespread among the aging.

For the benefit of readers who have this experience yet before them, perhaps it may be useful to go through some of challenges of decrepitude that Brown examines.

Brown writes about comparing himself to younger men in dishonest ways—both to puff himself up and to convince himself (and others) that he is not so old as he knows he is. This is a vicious game to play as there is no way to win it. The unchangeable fact is that those younger men are, after all, younger. I will not claim always to avoid this temptation, but likely I do better at it than Brown, just to judge from the number of examples in his book.

In fact, noticing the existence of other men—in the healthy, youthful demographic or otherwise—is not something I am in the habit of doing at all. (Women, on the other hand, one notices—at least as a male not yet completely gelded by age). Unless these other men are family members or friends, or I am directly engaged in conversation with them for some practical reason, or my instincts have registered them as potential threats to be monitored, I scarcely even see most other men. Indeed, my tendency is to walk around with my eyes down in my customary fog, ferociously concentrated on one or another obsessive idea.

This is doubtless also a fault—not a positive aspect of personality about which I have some cause to brag. Yet, as much as it might indicate an anti-social attitude, I would recommend it to other aging men. The less you notice others, and especially the ones who can still do more adeptly than you can all the physical stuff men are proud to be able to do, the less you will be pulled into the losing game of evaluating yourself against the younger and more vigorous.

Brown also writes much about drinking alcohol, although he indicates that he is quite aware the habit is generally a bad idea as one ages. I have been a social drinker for much of my adult life and am by no means a teetotaler in my dotage. Yet I began to drastically cut my intake about a decade ago, though mostly not of my own volition. I discovered that even small amounts (compared to my previous tolerance) had sometimes, unpredictably, started giving me instant headaches, and so I was forced to adjust, whether I liked it or not (mostly I did not). I am still able to have an eggnog with some rum around the Christmas holiday without falling dead, but I now count myself rather lucky that my body has communicated in no uncertain terms the message that this and an occasional glass of wine with a savory meal is for me the extent of it from here on out.

Again, there is no tooting of my own horn on this one, as no willpower is involved here. My body has simply told me to stop it or suffer, so I have mostly stopped because I like to avoid suffering. I am hopeful but not certain that my health will reap the benefits of this involuntary limitation. If Brown keeps drinking copiously and outlives me, I will at least be happy not to be here to realize that for no good reason I was cheated out of the enjoyment of more beer and wine.

Brown also frets a good deal, as nearly all of us do, about going bald. I am happy to say that I fought and (eventually) won that bitter war several decades ago. I let my hair grow in my youthful countercultural days and it stayed that way through my 20s. (How, after all, can one be a proper anarchist revolutionary without such accoutrements?) But it had been thinning at the temples and crown for a few years when, while I was in graduate school, I finally just cut it all off. I was on a trip to a conference half the continent away, so I decided to take advantage of that in order to get the damned thing over with and get on with the rest of my life.

I cannot now be sure of this, but it is very likely that data from the conference I attended reinforced what had been a building sentiment that the long hair had to go. Anyone who has ever seen an academic conference in my discipline of sociology knows these events are full of middle-aged men who appear to be six-to-eight months pregnant, sporting long ponytails containing but a few strands of hair and a massive bald spot on top. The uniform includes an XL-sized Rage Against the Machine or Clash t-shirt, or perhaps something from the Jimmy Buffett line, and a walking, dog-eared copy of Marx’s Grundrisse under one arm.

I am fairly confident that, as I was wandering around contemplating what to do about Mother Nature’s machinations with my hair, the mortifying sight of those expansive herds grazing aimlessly on their bags of trail mix and proclaiming the Good News of Total Revolution, prodded me in the right direction.

Sure, there were difficult moments and regrets in the first year or so of baldness, but then I got used to it, as we get used to so many things we cannot change. Now I seldom, if ever, think of what it would be like to have a full head of hair. Time spent washing and drying it, worrying about it going grey or white, thinking about how long or short to have it given my age and politics. Meh. Good riddance. I sometimes wish age-related male pattern baldness affected more parts of the body. Maybe I could cease the odious task of shaving too, and stop spending so much time trimming the hair that now accumulates with terrifying rapidity on my ear lobes. What a happy day that would be! It would almost make it worth being one step closer to the grave. Almost.