What an afternoon.
Last week when the talented individuals at PRIV (the self-described Seamless for beauty) offered to turn me into a zombie for Halloween, I knew I couldn't turn down the opportunity. But when perusing the site and seeing the sheer talent on hand, I realized I could go above and beyond what was being offered. At first I wanted to be turned into a woman, but then couldn't bear the thought of causing so many drive-by erections and car wrecks. I knew what I had to do. I asked them if they could turn me into an old man, they said, nonchalantly, "Sure," and just like that, a few makeup magicians were sent to my office.
They aged me 50 years in two hours. The results were shockingly amazing and I caught a glimpse of my future. (If, that is, I end up getting into crystal meth and stop showering.) Below are some photos and a diary of the process.
And, yes, I legitimately got a senior discount at IHOP. See for yourself.
I loved the makeup artist. This was probably because she told me that I had great skin. I explained to her that it's because I'm a writer and all writers have great skin, because we don't perform any kind of physical labor whatsoever and our biggest stress is a Word document not opening in under five seconds.
It began by using nothing more than liquid latex and your run-of-the-mill theatrical makeup that one could find behind stage of any production of Annie. Or that one where Daniel Radcliffe is naked with a horse. This photo looks like I'm trying to be a "cool" dad -- which I totally could be.
It was when my forehead got the latex treatment that I started to look like more weathered, curmudgeonly, and sad. My craving for hard candy had already started and I was liking "rap" music less and less by the minute.
As more and more layers of liquid latex were painted onto my face and creased along my natural (and inexplicable) 27-year-old creases, I found it harder to open my eyes and speak in a sprightly manner. This is when I really began to get into character. My old-man voice, which I continued using for the rest of the day, was born. For reference, the voice was something like this, perhaps a little more toned down.
Vietnam veteran or single uncle from Worcester who gave you your first Kid Rock CD... in 2014? You decide. Some of the finest details were the little veins on the temples and that red nose that most elderly people have. Why are older people's noses always red?
Look kids, discount Ted Danson! Using a mascara wand, grey hair dye invaded my hair and eyebrows, which -- I feel -- made me look like a hip grandfather. I'd be the kind of grandfather who gives you a smutty DVD and two fingers of Scotch on your birthday.
Ah, yes, and then the mustache. This stuff was applied with a sturdy spirit gum and made of chemically straightened goat hair -- seriously, it was actually made of goat hair. Regardless of the fact that the hair came from an animal that tastes delicious covered in curry, I never felt more human than with this mustache -- albeit, a very sad old human.
After 2.5 hours of hard work (coupled with a sick hat from JackThreads) I was turned into a 70-year-old man who definitely downloaded all those illegal videos those cops found on my computer.
It was pretty great roaming the streets as a creepy old guy. The air was more brisk, the children were loud and obnoxious, the hot dogs were as delicious as ever. But that was just all fun and games. I knew I had to put my face to the test.
I had to find a senior discount.
The only place I knew where I could accurately put all these layers of liquid latex and yearning for cheap deals to good use was my favorite breakfast spot -- a little mom-and-pop joint called the International House of Pancakes.
IHOP has always catered to the lives of older folk; it has an extensive 55+ menu, as well as a senior discount. Admittedly, I thought my waitress was playing along when she brought me my half-priced onion rings* and kept referring to me as "sir" -- she didn't even bat a lash at my wrinkled face and dead eyes.
(*which I only ordered because they were legitimately out of soup)
When my check came and I saw the 69-cent discount, I had to break character and ask the waitress what her deal was. To my complete surprise, she was fooled. She had no idea. I, too, was blindsided. She actually thought I was a grumpy old man who carried a frightening bloodlust for IHOP. (Well, the second half of that is still true.)
Either way, it worked, she let the discount stand, and I spent the rest of the night roaming the streets, jabbing youngsters, making crude remarks, and swallowing more goat hair than I ever have in my life.
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