I dragged my mate, of several decades, to order a pair of glasses for him. The ancient, black-framed pair roosting on his nose had grown smugly comfortable over the last several years, so it was hard to tell where the glasses ended, and the man began. Their owner, fashionably unfashionable, was incorrigibly reluctant to change that familiar terrain of his countenance. “Fashion, what fashion?” He asks. Never, one to chase the ever-changing fashion landscape he has unmistakable style. Stylish in his kindness, generosity, forgiveness, and ability to hold his own. Always! A true man, like no other. But, I wanted change; a newer, perhaps more dashing look, a touch of the latest, a touch of lost youth, a desire to recapture the glow of an old flame.
I wanted black banished.
And instead, colour lavished!
So, there we were! Browsing in a nicely done up store with myriad fancy glasses, with no eyes behind them, glinting at us, in placid pride, from several angles. Brands, like Hugo Boss, Polo Ralph Lauren, Klein, Gucci, Dolce Gabbana screamed fashion statements from their lofty perches. I smirked at them,
“you, silly prideful pieces of plastic,
you really think you are fantastic?
You are nothing till a nose you find
on which to rest your skinny behind”.
I hover over a brood of Raybans, but my guy doesn’t share my passion for the cursive flourish of that name. So, I let them be. The knowledgeable and super-crafty salesman veered us towards a window full of Carreras (hey! aren’t Carreras supposed to be Porches, a fancy type of car!). “Raybans sit spectacularly at the bottom of the spectacle hierarchy”, he informed us. Yeah? (Clearly, Rayban was not too generous with their commissions!) He brandished his arm towards the opposite wall. TOM FORD. Who is he? “A celebrated fashion designer”. Hmmm. “Those frames start at an impossible thousand dollars for the cheapest ones”. Our eyes popped larger than any lens in the store! But, we are free to try them and he will work out a deal for us. Oh, great, we are not some Clooney and his ilk. You know that, right? Quite shell-shocked we turned back to the humble Raybans again.
I inspect a pair with deep maroon frames. Here was colour, indeed! Placing them on my man I stepped back to survey the effect. Instantly it dressed his eyes in a formidable frown. A stern parent, a priggish prude, a conniving villain. Hah! Laughing, I removed them and descended on a pair of Hugo Boss with rounded edges, and,
they, a scholar did make of him.
Nah! need something more grounded,
not haloed owl-like wisdom beam.
So back it went, looking awfully offended.
Ah! A Polo looked lovely in my eyes. A deep electric blue frame of thin metal, with arms of the same colour, brightened with a strap of muted turquoise. The inner edges sidling up to the nose-bridge at a rakish angle. Took years off that familiar face. Imparted a merry glint to the deep brown eyes and flooded my consciousness with memories of when we were first engaged. I loved the pair. It estranged the familiar, telescoped the years, and they crinkled the edges of my own eyes with affirmation. First picking made! Happiness washed over me. My mate? Wrinkled his nose at the image in the mirror and decided to continue the search.
His eyes alighted on a Carrera with a coffee-bronzed half-frame and elegant olive-green arms that sometimes wore a brown and sometimes a greyish hue, depending on the way the light scintillated off it. Something solid and honest, yet lively and earthy. Looking back at me through the fake lenses was the genuine guy I knew!
Not young, not old
Perfect to behold,