Antonio was a good-looking guy, and he knew it. Everyone in his close circle knew so as well since he kept on reminding you several times throughout random, unrelated conversations. When someone complimented him on his outfit or freshly shaved head, he would ask: ‘Have you ever seen a more stylish guy than me?’ with a playful, proud grin. You had to give it to him – a walking personification of self-love.

During family dinners, you would catch him having a glimpse at his reflection in the mirror mid-chat, zoning out with a side-of-the-mouth smirk towards his echo in the looking glass, as if flirting with this other proud Antonio across the room. When we were younger, he would remind us of how he had once hand-modelled for a TV ad; he would then show you his big, manly and yet carefully manicured hands, as if to prove his point, almost urging you to touch them and feel their much sought-after natural ruggedness.

This had always been the case throughout the years, but as he got older, Antonio’s never-ending urge for acclamation from his peers was exacerbated by the passing of time. His big, proud nose got bigger, and the relentlessness of the Australian sun gave him a tan that many would kill for. His tall, proud stance slowly gave in to a slight sexagenarian slouch; his receding hairline had now completely given way to a bald, brown head that he shaved religiously and caressed every now and then at the end of a conversation once the night got late.

When these late nights around the dinner table wandered on and guests were over, he would suddenly switch conversation topics by asking the recently accepted newcomer: ‘How old do you think I am?’ The answers, most times, were all well under the mark – to his absolute delight, of course – and usually complimented by a proud sentence to mark his never-ending youth along the lines of: ‘Sixties are the new forties!’

It was with his proud, bald head held high that one day Antonio walked into the local golf clubhouse, as he had done hundreds of times before. The new kid behind the counter barely looked up from the computer when Antonio said he wanted to play 9 holes.

‘Concession?’ the new worker asked.

Antonio’s bald head wrinkled up; his brown eyes widened in utter disbelief.

‘Concession?! How old do you think I am, mate?’

The young man looked up to see a deeply hurt customer, ready to walk out in disgust.

‘I am 59 years old mate, mind you!’

‘Sorry about that sir, I will just charge you the full amount.’

Antonio clasped his card against the EFTPOS terminal containing his absolute repulsion towards the young man’s folly and walked out. It was one of those late winter days when the sun is shining and the grass is at its greenest; the birds seemed to chirp happily in unison at the imminent arrival of spring. It didn’t matter for Antonio, who went on to have one of his worst games in recent years. None of his two golf partners could quite pick out what was bothering him, but they also knew not to ask in these instances.

The thing about Antonio was that the only thing he liked more than being complimented on his style or youthfulness was a good, solid deal. So, the next time Antonio walked up the stairs of the clubhouse to find the same new young worker as last time, he didn’t hesitate.

‘9 holes, concession, please mate’.

The young man looked up at Antonio and his gaze recoiled into the safety of the computer screen.

‘Absolutely, sir. Have a good one out there.’

Antonio went on to have one of the best rounds of his life that day.