Two mundane, everyday occurrences came together for me this morning, creating an epiphany the likes of which have not been seen since Albert Einstein asked himself, "Hmm, I wonder what ‘E' equals?"

I don't mean to wax messianic here, but the insights I gained from brushing the cat, then shaving (my face, not the cat) will no doubt irrevocably alter civilization as we know it.  I just hope the rest of humanity is ready to make the leap into this brave, new world along with me.

Like all truly great ideas, this one can be summed up in a very few words.  Sadly, I have about 20 inches of column space to fill here, so I'm going to have to drag it out a bit.

We'll start with the cat.  He's one of those godawful Siamese cats, owned not by me, but by The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, who imbues the feline with all sorts of positive personality traits he does not, in actuality, possess.  Like all cats, he tolerates the human presence in "his" house only because the hairless monkeys (Mrs. T and me) know how to use a can opener.  Contrary to Mrs. T's delusions, he does not love us, he is not loyal and if he were 200 pounds larger than he is, we would immediately become part of his menu.

Still, he does catch the occasional bat, and for that, I am grateful.

Though cat maintenance is mostly Mrs. Taylor's purview, I occasionally brush him out, just to be doing my part.  It only takes a minute, and frankly, the cat loves it more than coyotes love the sweet taste of roadrunner.

While brushing the fuzzball this morning, I noticed that, despite the fact he's nearly 14 years old - which qualifies him for an AARP card in the cat world - he still looks great.  Not a day older than he did when he was hitting puberty.  (Actually, he never hit puberty, thanks to a trip to the vet early on.  Sorry ‘bout that, kitty.)

At any rate, to the naked eye, he's still a young cat.  Putting away the brush, I thought about the inequity of this; why does a cat, one of the least-favored of God's creations (can you tell I'm not a cat person?) gets to stay young forever, while I get older with each passing moment?

Like most "deep thoughts" I have throughout any given day, this one flitted in and out of my consciousness like an inebriated butterfly, here and then gone.

I went upstairs to shower and shave.  Standing before the mirror, my face lathered up for its daily scrape, I took a good, hard look at the 51-year-old countenance gazing back at me.  Though I've held up amazingly well (if you know me personally, don't break the truth to me, please) for a man of my years, I in no way look as good as Mrs. T's cat.

Why?  In a word, wrinkles.  I have them.  Like all geezers, I've accumulated my share of rumpled facial clefts and valleys over the years, and no amount of anti-wrinkle cream, surgery, Botox, cleansers, fillers or scrubs is going to do much to hide that fact.  A bag over my head might work, but I'm afraid I'd make the clerk at my neighborhood party store nervous if I went in there like that.

As I stared at my crinkly visage, something occurred to me.  Something wonderful.  Something that would hide my age ... forever!

Hair.

Long, beautiful hair.  I mean, it works for the cat, right?  I'm sure that somewhere under that luxurious coat of fur, the little hairball looks like Yoda's great-grandfather.  But the hair hides his age even better than would a paper bag over the head, and it doesn't scare most 7-11 clerks.

Now, by nature, I'm furrier than Chewbacca anyway (will the Star Wars references never end?), so all I have to do is ... stop shaving.  Granted, thanks to the devious nature of evolution, I do have a few "bald patches."  My forehead, the palms of my hands, the bottoms of my feet ... that's about it.  But I figure I can rub those down with Rogaine once or twice a day and in no time I'll be hairy from head to toe.

What's underneath all that hair?  Could be a 22-year-old stud muffin, could be an old geezer.  The point is, no one will be able to tell.

As an added bonus, I'll never have to shave or pay for a haircut again!  Turns out the dirty, filthy hippies had the right idea all along. 

Let the sun shine in, baby!  In this new Age of Aquarius, nobody will need sunscreen.  And we'll all look young forever!

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or complaints about the fact he used the word "evolution" in this column, e-mail mailto:mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.