Tribulations of being young

People have always said I look young. They say I’m lucky. They say I’ve won the genetic lottery (despite being short). They say I’ll learn to appreciate it someday. I’ve lived past my third decade and it’s going to be another three more before I start appreciating my youthful looks. By then, peeing every two hours or worrying about arthritis will probably matter more than looking young.

It might sound like a first world problem, but looking young does have its disadvantages. Let’s start with benign matters, like girls. After my twenties, finding a date has been progressively harder, and each passing year is like upping the difficulty on an already unbeatable game. My peers mature, and I seem to be stuck with youth, and women within my generation start finding me cute, or adorable, or non-threatening, or the term all guys loathe: a nice guy.

Well I could live with that. After all, men age like wine and women like cheese, so I figure I still have some time left in the market, but what irks me more than women problems is not being taken seriously. I remember back when I was working in the hair industry, when I had six years of experience under my belt. By then, I had already disfigured hundreds of heads, and beautified thousands more, so I wasn’t too shabby. One day a customer came in—and upon realising that I was her stylist—wouldn't let me touch her mane until she was sure I wasn't a student or a junior stylist. That was my moment of realisation that looking young isn’t all that it’s hyped up to be.

And if that wasn’t enough, looking young also leaks into other facets of life such as getting service. Whenever I walk into higher end establishments, the host always accommodates the more ‘powerful’ looking man first. This usually is a guy with a jowl, is a head taller than me, has peppered hair, and a full moustache to go with it.

“Sir? Table for two? Definitely. Oh, you want that four-seater? I guess you can. Right this way please.”

Then I walk up: “Sup bro. Two people? Over there, by the toilet, okay?”

Of course, a mature appearance isn’t the end all, be all, but I suspect it’d make my life a whole lot easier.

I remember a couple of years back when I went back to college to get an education. On my first day of school, while making friends with my new classmates, most of them asked me if I was waiting for my SPM results. That’s how much of a thug I am. I’m living decades behind.

Then there’s this time when I was an educator in the hair industry, and I was bringing the students to fire safety training. The class was meant only for students, so I decided to check out them shiny fire trucks. Five minutes later a fireman shouted, “Oi! Kenapa tak masuk class? Ponteng ka? Mana cikgu you?” It got pretty awkward after he understood the situation. At least he made up for it by letting me play with the trucks and on the sliding pole.

There’s also this one time when Lola and I were grabbing drinks at Friday’s. Again, I was approaching my thirties. As we ordered our Long Islands, the waiter asked to see my IC because according to him, “The legal drinking age in clubs is 18, but here it’s 21”.

Now don’t get this confused with oldness. I don’t want to look like Hugh Hefner, but I wouldn’t mind the charms of George Clooney or Richard Gere. I don’t want saggy balls, lower libido, and a receding hairline, but I don’t want to look like an SK-II commercial either.

But maybe they're right. Maybe when I'm older, I’ll still look 18, and I’ll be glad about it. For now though, I’ll be happy enough if I don’t get mistaken for a freshie during interviews.