Passing of a pretty boy

Five years ago, if you saw me, you would still have said I was quite a pretty boy. In my head, I guess I still see myself as being so. And to be fair, at ten O'Clock on a Friday night before I go out, I still am.
Less so at four O'clock Saturday morning.
I saw some photos this weekend taken three weeks ago which almost made me cry.
For on them I like every inch my age- and some.
Admittedly, they are taken in poor lighting, which is why my eyes are red, but the think stubble and the creases of the brow are the those of a man who fighting the tide.
In some I look quite Satanic, in none the fresh faced youth I still am in my head.
Ok, the moisturiser probably washed off my face as I danced. The constant run of the hands through my hair, plus I probably got caught in rain that night, will have destroyed my carefully sculpted curls.
But I was horrified at the photographic evidence.
Christ, in some I looked like Gollum!!
Age, age, age. I always hoped never to see it and now it is come upon me.
How many years, I wonder, do I have left to make hay while the sun shines?

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may...
My mother always used to tell me that one day my looks and charm would run out and then I'd just be a disreputable middle aged spiv.
How soon till that day dawns, I wonder?

I apologise for such introspective drivel.