A return to the simpler days

Sitting there in the barber's chair, I couldn't help but notice the gray hair on the apron that was draped over my shoulders. OK, so the gray hair wasn't actually there, at least not yet. But as I looked at myself in the mirror across from the red vinyl chair I was relaxing in, I couldn't help but imagine what I will look like as an old man and wonder, how many haircuts do I have left?\nWe celebrate the passage of time in months, years and decades, as if it's some huge accomplishment to simply avoid death for a certain period of time. This coming Friday, I will have cheated death for the 21st straight year and pass that last big milestone to embark on a journey that I'm not sure I'm ready for: adulthood. \nAs my good friend Cyril (of "Breaking Away" fame) once said, "When you're 16, they call it 'Sweet Sixteen', and when you're 18 you get to drink and vote and see dirty movies. What the hell do you get to do when you're 19?"\nGranted, Cyril wasn't aware of the fact that the legal drinking age would change to 21, but he never really was the sharpest rock in that quarry anyway.\nAt a time when everyone I know seems to tell me this is the most exciting time in my life, I'm beginning to miss those days that are already long gone. The days of hearing my mom tell me to wash my hands before dinner are only now a distant memory; the past has swept them up like confetti from a cold floor. No more worrying about being the last pick in the gym class kickball game; now it's worrying about being the last pick in that wonderful game of dating. \nI have no real desire to become an adult, although I guess it's too late for that. The irony is, when we were young, all we wanted to do was get older. We wanted to be as far away from home as possible and on our own as soon as we could. Do you remember taking your first bike for a spin out of the neighborhood? That sense of independence was only heightened when Dad handed over the keys to his Honda the day you earned your license. \nAs I tack on another year and light another candle, my wish changes dramatically. As I hold my breath and blow out all 21 candles, I wish I could be a kid again. I want to feel the strain in my arms when I tried to shoot a regulation basketball on a 10-foot net. I want to remember what it was like to look up at my dad, as if he was the biggest man in the world. It's just not the same when you're 6-foot-4.\nI want to get back on the big yellow school bus and go back to middle school, wondering if Stefanie Basset is ever going to kiss me. I want to re-live the stress of trying to get into college and to cross the finish line of a heated high school cross-country race just one more time. \nI'm not ready to go into this thing they call the "real world." Not just yet. My gray hair isn't ready to sprout and I'm certainly not ready to have children anytime in the near future. But my time is coming, and it's sneaking up on me faster than I ever expected. The fun part of my life is slowly ending, dripping away like beer from a poorly tapped keg. The future holds uncertainty, but will in all likelihood come to encompass a family, a house and a job that involves staring at a blank computer screen trying to write something that might, in some form or another, touch someone's life. \nTwenty-one down, hopefully a lot more to go. So long as I've got enough hair to get a decent cut, I'll be a happy man. And in a few years, when it is my gray hair on the apron, I'll look back and long for the day when I was trying to come up with a good idea for my birthday column. "Those were the days," I'll say, as I hand the apron over to the kid next in line.