Icarus has a haircut

In preparing to fly to Australia this Saturday I was advised to get my hairs cut as a sensible precaution. Working on the theory that lighter people make better flyers, I thought I should agree, and so I have. Short hair it is, though I long for that look, 3 weeks after the haircut when it all settles down again. Oh well, there are worse things to worry about I guess. But I was thinking again about the Icarus boy and how he is permanently trapped in youth and I wondered how I felt about that. I look at this worn face of too many lines and bumps and traces of age and wonder what it would be like to be forever young. I guess if we aged and gained experience without the physical signs of ageing we might satisfy at least an aesthetic view of ourselves - but do I really care. When I am an old bundle of rags, leaning on a stick with a hooked top, cut from an equally aged olive tree, will it really matter and will I still smile when I see the boy flying overhead, as he has done all these generations since his father cast him off, singing forever young.