On my stroll through the pedestrian area in the center of Zagreb, I bump into a man about my age. He, too, is just strolling around, and we bump into each other a few more times. His hair is as gray as is mine, but he has a huge mustache that is pitch black. Suspiciously black, that is. I look for a few gray hairs in his mustache each time we bump into each other, but I cannot see any. In short, he is dying it quite regularly. And so I feel kind of sorry for him. It would never even cross my mind to dye my eyebrows, say. Although they are not entirely gray yet, they are not far from it, either. My eyebrows will be perfectly gray in a few years, and yet I would never think of fiddling with their color. Like the man with dyed mustache, I would be fooling only myself. As well as enticing pity from passers by about my age. The pits.