A man glances at his forearm and notices that the hair there is going white. From that small moment, the speaker reflects on growing old. He looks at his chest hair, which was once black, and jokes about his thinning head, where there is little left to comb. He holds on to his moustache, which he compares to bicycle handlebars, as a last sign of his manhood. The beard he'd like to grow is out of the question, since his partner would object.
The tone is wry and self-mocking, with a quiet sadness underneath. Memories of youth, when hair first appeared in "dark and exciting places," contrast with the present. The image of long, oblong shadows at dusk shows life moving toward its end. The final lines are the starkest: his hair would be the first thing to catch fire, a nod to cremation. The humour softens the poem, but the ending leaves a thoughtful, slightly chilling note about mortality.