Coveting the younger man

The other day while walking through campus, I fell in step behind a young man with glorious locks the familiar shade of ebony. He was perfectly coifed too, with the kind of hair that falls effortlessly into place (or so I imagine). My husband once sported a thick head of wavy black hair. I liked it best when he allowed it to grow long enough to curl at the top, perfect for running my adoring fingers through.

Nowadays he won't let me touch his hair for fear the last remaining strands will fall out. He's just as sexy as ever — there's no paunch to go along with the thinning hair, no missing teeth, no rancid breath. But the poor boy feels old. And I suppose he looks it now more than ever. Over the holidays, while a (hopefully) brief bout of frugality descended upon the household, preventing me from visiting the hair salon for my usual highlight job, I noticed more than a few gray hairs on my own 40-year-old scalp. Being a blond, it's not a tragedy, but still it's a sign of youth passing even when I feel just the same as I did in my twenties, strolling through another university campus with hardly a care in the world. Now I'm wiser, more confident, a tiny bit disillusioned, but I fancy I'll feel the same in ten, twenty, maybe even thirty years (should I be so fortunate).

Although surely by then, I'll no longer covet the crowning glory of a bold twenty-year-old male. Well, actually, I'm not so sure.

Tell me, does your hubby/significant other still fire your imagination (while we're still on that theme)?