Why Do Old Men Stop Trying?

I’m sitting in my usual spot at Starbucks this afternoon, looking at another old guy who is in my line of sight. He is wearing a frayed, ill-fitting, untucked flannel shirt over an untucked T-shirt, along with a pair of baggy jeans. His clothes may be clean (I can’t tell), but nothing fits, nothing coordinates, and nothing suggests that he gave his appearance a moment’s thought before leaving home.

I see versions of him everywhere. Obviously retired, senior-aged men appear at coffee shops, grocery stores, and doctors’ offices dressed as though they are spending Saturday afternoon cleaning the garage. Their hair grows past the point of intention, and their beards occupy some uneasy territory between five-o’clock shadow and pure neglect. Shirts droop, pants sag, and shoes appear to have been selected simply because they were near the door.

Of course, maybe I’m being unfair. I know that old age can make seemingly simple things difficult. From firsthand experience, I know that arthritis complicates buttons and shoelaces, while chronic pain drains energy once available for grooming. Our bodies change, familiar clothes stop fitting, and fixed incomes limit what can be replaced.

Depression and loneliness can also express themselves through neglect. Sometimes a man who looks as though he has stopped caring has, in fact, stopped caring, but not without reason. Still, do those explanations account for all of what I am observing?

I suspect that many retired men simply decide they are finished making an effort. Who, after all, is going to call them out? The workplace once imposed minimum standards, and partnerhood may have supplied him with another person who noticed a stained shirt or suggested a haircut. Once those structures have gone away, some guys apparently decide that appearance no longer matters.

Me? I resist that conclusion. I get a haircut once a month. I shower and shave every day, wear clean clothes that fit, and try to look as though I knew I was going out in public when I got dressed. I even use body lotion in an attempt to smooth over some of my wrinkles.

Occasionally, finding clothes that fit requires more effort than simply taking something off the rack, though. Pants almost never come in precisely my size, so I buy the closest fit and have a seamstress alter them. I wear shorts, but not the voluminous old-guy (John Fetterman) kind that billow around the knees. I wear hoodies, too, provided they come in a size and cut that actually fit. My favorite, which I happen to be wearing today, says “HARVARD LAW (Just Kidding),” so clearly I am not arguing for formality. (My T-shirt, tucked in underneath, says “RESIST.”)

This is not vanity, or at least not entirely. I am not trying to look young, and I have no illusion that a well-fitting shirt or clean hoodie will disguise my age. (I am painfully aware that I am entirely invisible to younger women.) I simply want the clothes I wear to look chosen rather than surrendered to.

I am trying to look like a person who remains engaged with the world. Clothing is communication, even when we insist we are not communicating anything. Making some effort says that I expected to encounter other people today. It indicates that I recognize I am part of a shared environment and have not entirely withdrawn into my own private kingdom.

There may also be a question of dignity involved. Old age takes things from us without asking, including strength, balance, hair, smooth skin, and sometimes memory and the car keys. We cannot prevent every loss. Perhaps attending to my appearance is one small way of declining to decline.

I do not believe old men need expensive wardrobes, fashionable haircuts, or elaborate grooming rituals. A clean shirt that fits would accomplish quite a lot. So would shaving, or maintaining a beard as though one had deliberately chosen it.

The man across the room is entitled to dress however he pleases, and, as judgmental as this sounds, I am entitled to find the result dispiriting. What bothers me is not really his flannel shirt or baggy jeans. It is the possibility that they represent surrender, the idea that once a man retires and grows old, he no longer owes the visible world any sign that he is still participating in it.

This is where I come down: Even now at twelve years into retirement, I am not ready to give in. Tomorrow morning, I will shave, choose clothes that fit, and present myself to the world as someone who is still here. I encourage all you other old guys out there to give this some thought.

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Soundtrack Suggestion

When I get older, losing my hair
Many years from now,
Will you still be sending me a valentine,
birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

(“When I’m Sixty Four” — Beatles)

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