Last month, I found myself at a party. Not a good party. One of those parties where a restaurant/bar/club is clearly not doing well and they hire a publicist to invite every single person in their address book to hopefully post photos from the event to raise awareness for the establishment. These dire conclaves are staples of the LA nightlife industry. Random guest lists, not enough food, and “signature cocktails” that would make even F. Scott Fitzgerald reconsider his choices.
If he were alive.
And living in Los Angeles.
This bad party is notable only for the fact that it was the first time I’ve ever felt truly old. The bathroom of this tedious bar had mirrors all the way around the space. Hospitality impresarios, here’s a tip. If you’re going to force your patrons to look directly at their backs, a part of their body that they never see, at least include a trigger warning on the door. I was horrified to bear witness to a gaping bald spot on the back of my head, illuminated by countless LED light bulbs. I had just enough champagne for this to be a devastating moment that still haunts me weeks later.
I walked back out into the party, filled with younger, hotter people who probably look perfectly fine from the rear. Game over. Time to pack it in, make some soup, and throw on a few Frasier reruns until I die.
It’s not that I don’t know I’m losing my hair. It’s not that I’m oblivious to the passage of time. I spend plenty of time looking at my bald spot in the morning and trying in vain to cover it up with vigorous comb tricks. What happened was I never really looked at it, or considered it in the context of a party full of happy young people.
I’m old.
I guess that’s fine. It will happen to all the sexiest people (and I was never even remotely sexy). If they’re lucky, they’ll have just enough money to have tasteful work done to their face. If they’re unlucky, they’ll have so much money that they’ll end up with too much work done.
I will probably never amass enough to chisel the mashed potatoes out of my jowls or get the really good hair plugs that don’t fall out after a couple years. Maybe I could beg my doctor for an Ozempic prescription. Or I could stop drinking martinis, take up a heavy workout routine, and generally make myself miserable. These are the choices we all have to make on the precipice of 40. None of them sound particularly appealing.
I suppose that’s why people hate the idea of aging so much: it’s a choice between dying on the outside or on the inside. Why not both, is what I say. I can be healthier, for sure. It’s New Year’s Resolution season, so I might as well throw another missed target on the pile. But I’m not going to get plugs. I’m not going on Ozempic (famous last words). I’ll keep dressing like an old man, since I have been for years now. I will also continue talking about how old I am in public.
The sight of my gaping maw of a bald spot was only disturbing because I hadn’t yet accepted my age, my fragility, and my new place in society. I’m no longer on the cutting edge of anything except stem cell treatments for joint pain. I’m on the outside of what’s next. At most, I can appreciate the vanguards of things, but I can’t pretend I’m the same person I was ten years ago. I’m not a husband on Real Housewives, desperately clinging to my hypebeast sneakers, skateboards, and KAWS collection.
That said, I am wearing head to toe Fear of God sweats while I type this. Yes, that does make me a hypocrite. Jerry Lorenzo’s fashion empire is responsible for some of the most dire old man fits I’ve ever seen. The oversized, oddly proportioned tailoring and activewear screams “I’m young, cool, rich, and incapable of dressing myself.” I also love Fear of God and wrote about their show at the Hollywood Bowl last spring.
The suiting has a whiff of vintage Armani and Jerry seems like a genuine artiste, for better or worse. Everything he does is deeply serious, lacking in the obnoxious irony and elitism of Balenciaga. His Essentials diffusion line isn’t just a massive money maker for his company, it’s also a means of democratizing his work and giving just about anyone a chance to participate in his world.
His new collaboration with Adidas, called Fear of God Athletics, is somewhere in between the high-end and the casual. It’s clothing made ostensibly for the playing of actual sports, but I can’t imagine anyone doing any hooping in these basketball shoes:
I have a pair. They’re comfortable, eye-catching, and a marvel of design. It’s classic Jerry, but considering the NBA banned Supreme shooting sleeves five years ago, I can’t imagine this making it onto even Russell Westbrook’s feet on a professional court. This is fashion in every sense — impractical, idiosyncratic, and unapproachable. It’s young.
Your dad will not be wearing this out to the golf course this weekend, unless your dad is Offset, and then, why is he playing golf? Is that shirt up there a shirt? Or is it a mini-poncho? When I wear oversized clothes like this, am I hiding my weight or accentuating it? Does it just make me look like a sick elephant? Or worse…the husband of a Real Housewife?
By wearing Fear of God Athletics, am I forsaking my own good advice to dress age-appropriate? Am I the sad-sack clinging to relevance? I suppose I’m ahead of the game just by asking these questions and interrogating my place in the world. Fashion isn’t all that different from media and show business. It’s for the young. People can tell you how you can be “young at heart,” but you’re not young!
I’ve gone from being the person everyone called an “old soul” for liking books and being grumpy, to now just being old. Maybe my full-throated embrace of Fear of God is my version of a mid-life crisis. This moment will come for you, too, if it hasn’t already. The decision you have to make is how hard you will fight back.
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