When asked what colour they were I had replied “chicken broth”. Age 5? Food is always an integral part of my consciousness. Endless menus and food combinations constantly being uploaded, edited and published. Also, so much for my perception of colour. Chicken broth isn’t brown, but then what is the closest colour?

I was told I would never need glasses because I passed the eye test with flying colours… In 198X. Now, my glasses have a perfect combination:

• Astigmatism (so no matter how big my smartphone’s screen is, all I see is fuzzy barcodes without glasses)
• Hypermetropia (walking into hotel showers is a nightmare, which is the shampoo, the conditioner, the body wash?)
• Myopia (I can drive and read the road signs -still having to count the exits in a roundabout, but that has to do with my sense of direction, not sight-, and I don’t wear glasses when I run, can make out what my pace, and more importantly the heart rate is)

But whoever invented progressive lenses must be (if not already there) in Heaven, even St Peter might have benefited from the invention. It is pure 4K Ultrahigh definition vision. I sometimes can’t believe the difference in vision, looking at a plant first without the glasses and then with them. Amazing!

So, the glasses are a key part of my appearance. I don’t leave without them. I’ll grow old, very old, and wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled, and keep adjusting my glasses as I near the time when I meet those nonagenarian neighbours again.

Every now and then I think of having laser treatment and entertain the idea of ditching glasses… Two words come into my mind: Final Destination. I doubt it very much that one is left alone in the doctor’s surgery during the treatment and end up in the pavement with a laser-scorched eyeball popping out of your skull only to be crushed by a car, but I think I’ll stick to glasses… For now. That is except when it rains, I hate it, especially when a vagabond raindrop manages to hit me in the eye, followed by its companions that manage to create a myriad of mini-lenses on my glasses. That’s when a voluntary downgrade to blurry eyesight is in order. I’d rather struggle with my vision than moan about rainy glasses.

Greying and in good condition. Not abundant, no Leonidas here but I do have one. Not that I would like to be Leonidas. A real six-pack wouldn’t hurt. Might have the urge to shave it one day, one day in the distant future. Yes, just like the typical Turkish lie of having blond hair when we were young, I did have a six-pack 20 kilos ago. I am (and was) hardly someone you could call lanky.

Born weighing 5.8 kilos one sunny August morning following eleven hours of labour (my poor mum), I was rather chubby until high school, but hang on, the beard was the topic, so more about the fat kid later.

Alexander the great forbade his soldiers to have long beards, not because of discipline, but rather because long beards served as handles for enemy soldiers in the battlefield to lift poor Alexandrian soldiers’ heads and slash their throats. Makes sense. Must be a very bad way to die. But after all, is there an easy way? Dying in your sleep maybe. My mum died in her sleep, just as she had wished, but a couple of decades too soon.

Now, the beard. I’m not very hairy, and this was a bonus during military service. I could go for a week without a shave and no, the drill sergeants do not run cotton pads on your face to see if you shaved properly, it is a myth. Maybe in the presidential guard they do. But I was too short to even be considered for that regiment. Now, I find it easier to let it grow and I trim it every week, it isn’t sparse, but again, no Leonidas either.

Hair, greying but still in good condition. I used to like Peter Criss and his “salt and pepper hair”. Good voice too, “Beth I hear you calling….”, but not impressive as a drummer. He is still better than Phil Rudd, the latter sounding no better than a rhythm machine stuck at the simplest setting… Albums and albums long. One of the reasons why I’m not a big fan of AC/DC. I’m not sure if they’ll be devastated to read this. Another Phil (Collins) said in an interview, when asked what he had wished he had, said (touching his scalp) “more of this” and (touching his gut) “less of this”. I would give all my hair and take all his gut to play the drums as he does. My downstairs neighbours would have loved that. Not that they knew Phil Collins, but they knew this teenager playing on the floor just above them. In retrospect I feel sorry for all the times they had to endure me practicing Exit… Stage left, the whole album from The Spirit of Radio to La Villa Strangiato. Only they would hear me butchering the drum parts while I felt like I was playing just like Peart listening to the album on the headphones. Peart must be spinning in his grave. Not sure of those poor nonagenarian neighbours. Too little, too late.

Short hair now after 15 years. When I had it long, I liked the Morty/Einstein look too, but the family disagreed. Comb hair immediately after shower and you have an older Andy Garcia and it dries to match my Bitmoji. Don’t comb and let it dry by itself, here’s Morty. I’m quite happy with the (much) shorter version, people thought I had the nits when they saw me with the short version. To be fair, it was a bit shorter than I had expected, but then it grows, doesn’t it?

No bald patch, so even with the wild long hair version, I couldn’t be Morty. I’ll limit the similarity to intelligence. I hereby solemnly, irrevocably and proactively exonerate my wife for suffocating me with a pillow if I become bald on top and resort to the “thatched roof” style to cover it. Seriously, wear a toupee, one can still tell it is not your original hair, but at least it looks more, hair-ish? Or shave your head, Skinheads have been out of fashion for decades. Easy on the booze though, or people will call you Phil Mitchell. I’d rather be likened to Jack Branning. For one, you can understand when he talks, unlike Max.. Max requires subtitles. Max the fornicator. Do the producers of Eastenders have a project team to determine who he’ll sleep with next? Does someone an Excel file for Max, Ian, Jack (even Jack!) on how many relationships they had in the square? Easy to summarise Eastenders to a beginner though, they all have affairs with each other’s wives, husbands, sisters, sons, daughters, brothers, distant cousins, sometimes all at the same time, there are always secrets and as the episodes go everyone knows about them except for those who will be directly affected if the secret is revealed. Inevitably it is revealed of course…So, until the next affair, illegitimate child or secret, doof doof doof.

The good thing about wearing your hair short is that you don’t have to dry or style it. Got to have it trimmed regularly to avoid looking like Pugsley, just that…

Agggggg, brush, brush, brush, up and down up and down, easy on the gums… Blood and white foam mixture. Is it 2 minutes yet, am I there yet? Most people brush only for 40 seconds, me included. Got to floss. Metres maybe miles of it in the drawer. All those unkept promises after each session of dental hygiene. Just can’t be bothered. Tomorrow. Yeah, right. Add to the train of moisturisers, eyebrow enhancers (rip-off) and all the nonsense that I have accumulated over the years.

How does one manage to squirt toothpaste to the mirror? You open the tube as if handling nitro-glycerine, yet one bit always manages to find is way onto the impeccably clean surface. One lucky, fluoride enhanced sperm-like tadpole. Attempt to wipe it off with your sleeve and cause further blur. What do people think when they look at themselves while brushing their teeth? Like, what does Gene Simmons think? Is it like: ”Man, when we first came up with the make-up idea in 1973 it was cool? Now? Well, we’re still touring, playing catchy riffs with bland lyrics. Crazy, crazy nights… Let me see my tongue again, aaaaaaaa. All good Gene!”

Born on the same day as old Gene, 25^th August. Much later than 1949, though! Is having the same birthday as celebrities a big thing? Rob Halford, same day in 1951, way to go! Morty would be proud of me. But then I’m talking about a fictional character with permanent greenish phlegm hanging from the corner of his mouth. Imagine having a grandfather like that. Bloody rude, highly intelligent even when transformed into a cucumber, commandeering a cockroach to move about and eventually restoring himself. Travelling to space and other planets as if visiting the local convenience store in his battered space craft.

I couldn’t be Morty though. For one, I hate cucumbers. Intelligence, that box is checked. But really, cucumbers, why do they even exist? Composed 95% of water and some substance to hold it together yet with an aftertaste and accompanying heartburn. Imagine me turned into a cucumber, I would hate myself.

So, another year has gone today, got to scroll one more line filling on-line forms. If my dad’s lifespan is the benchmark, two thirds already gone. But then I don’t smoke, so add a couple more years. But then I can be hit by a car or an e-scooter tomorrow. Not an excuse to smoke though. I’m off it. End of. Fifty something. Used to think in my child years, “I’ll be 33 in the year 2000”. Yes, and? Would I have a Martin Landau poster in my moon base room? Would I pack my flying car into a briefcase like George Jetson? Would I join a secret society and rule the world like Spectre or the 8? In time, I did get a space 1999 Eagle Transporter diecast toy and met people in not-so-secret societies. Still no moon base and no secret plots to rule the world, but met a lot of lovely people, the usual twats excluded of course.

Or would I be a world famous usher in the local cinema? (Yes, that was my dream job. Always imagining the perk of seeing my favourite films for as many times as I wanted). Ok, birthday now. There was a film where Burt Reynolds was admiring himself in the mirror, that was when he still had his own hair. Let me have a look at myself: