Mirrors are liars

I watch my son
Comb his hair
For the nth time
Still unsatisfied,
All the while
Spouting strange theories
About the rebellious curl;
I don't remember
How much time
I spent before the mirror
At his age;
He must believe
In the peer talk
That the way
To a woman's heart
Is through the crop
At the top;
I mean, if you can't take care of your hair
How will you look after her?
I am at a stage
Where I don't look at mirrors
But look through them
Fingers are enough
To dress those strands
That are few and far between;
Like an actor past his prime
I prefer the long shots
To the close-ups
The half-lit scenes
To the pitiless daylight exposures
The shadows to the sun.
I often fly into a rage
When people talk of age
I deny the presence of unwanted guests
That the 40-plus play host to ---
I glare at my heir
Still taming his hair.