When I gaze into a mirror on the walls of gents' cloakrooms in a pub or a club, I usually think I'm looking at someone else. Several times, I have acknowledged, nodded and even spoken with the image confronting me. Maybe it's denial of my deteriorating appearance, alcohol-fuelled visual infirmities or flashbacks of ancient hallucinations interfering with my short-term memory.
On a good day, when I look in the bathroom mirror at home, I see Rhys Ifans. On a very good day, I see Elvis in Jailhouse Rock. But most days I stare at a not too recently excavated mummy of a creased Mick Jagger. If I've just woken up, the hair on my head sticks out in all directions (it never used to), and I see newly sprouting hairs in my nose and ears, and previously unnoticed moles.
My arms look thinner and my stomach bigger. I draw it in and stand taller. The eyebrows are bushier. The left eye looks healthier than the right. I have a thick head of hair trying to grey. I comb and flatten it with my fingers. After that first spell of light grooming, I tend to cheer up.
I'm not bad for 65, and sometimes I have to produce identity to prove I'm a pensioner. I'm wiser than I'm wizened, and I'm vain, not insecure. I'm lovely. No dysmorphobia for me. These days, I dance better. I move better and I look better.
Then I shave – but I never use those dreadful magnifying mirrors.
• Howard Marks is touring An Audience With Mr Nice until the end of November, howardmarks.name for details.
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