But as ages go, 30 is by no means the end. Things get mostly better from there, I think, as one who passed the threshold a few years ago. They get more interesting, anyway. Hairier, too. Literally.

Shortly after I turned 30, my barber correctly guessed my age based on a lone hair that had sprouted on the rim of my left ear. He snipped it, and every now and then it returns, upright, like an obscene gesture, taunting me.

I am the oldest of four brothers, and the next one after me recently turned 30. When a brother turns 30, you want to do something special for him. (And, sure, because you’re brothers, you want to haze him a little.)

Now, my brother was joining the Ear Hair Club for Men, too. And one way or another, we were going to throw a surprise party for him.

It was his wife’s idea. She made all the arrangements, renting a room at a bar and stealthily inviting the guests. For weeks, whenever I spoke to my brother, I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from accidentally divulging the event. We talk to each other by phone about once a day, so you can imagine how sore my tongue was, bitten to a pulp. I sounded like a drunkard when I spoke.

And whenever my sister-in-law and I talked to each other, I sounded like a character from “The Sopranos,” but without the rampant cursing, speaking in a kind of vague code to throw off any eavesdropping.

“So, how’s it going — that thing?”

That “thing,” of course, was her planning for Joe’s surprise party. And that “thing” cruised along without any bumps until the day of.

***

Joe and his wife live in Reading, and on the way over here, their car got a flat tire, jeopardizing the operation, which had been timed with military precision.

According to the plan, Joe would arrive at my house at 1:30 in the afternoon. I would keep him occupied while our wives, under the guise of doing something else, in truth decorated the party room and the guests arrived. Then, at 2:15, our brother Mike and I would take Joe to his party.

Throughout the flat-tire situation, my sister-in-law kept her cool, and Joe managed to make it to my house more or less on-time.

But I had virtually nothing planned for us to do to kill the time once he got here. Any elaborate plan on my part would attract suspicion, I reasoned. I was sure Joe had low expectations, and as a good brother I did not want to disappoint him.

So I thought we would watch an episode of “The Sopranos” on digital cable. That was the extent of my plan. Watching an episode would keep him distracted until it was time to go. But the digital cable inexplicably failed to work, and I had no Plan B.

I sweated and stalled as well as I could until Mike arrived, and then, soon enough, it was time.

By now, for one reason or another, Joe was very suspicious of us. Why would we be going to a bar early on a Saturday afternoon? If I had told him we were going to the moon, it might have seemed more plausible.

It was Joe’s turn to stall, and as he did, Mike and I could almost hear each second of the clock ticking down with a boom.

The pressure got to us. Voices were raised, and there was even a brief wrestling match that ended in a stalemate.

We calmed down. I fixed some blinds ruffled in the fracas and thought: How much easier this would be, if this were an episode of “The Sopranos.” I’d simply hit Joe behind the ear with a lamp, and we’d bundle him in a car trunk and take him to his party. (Now, that would be a surprise.) I glanced around for something handy and weighty, and also disposable, to knock him out with. Nothing.

He relented at last, like a man about to walk the plank, and we left.

Was he surprised when he got to the bar and saw the roomful of guests? I don’t know. He probably wouldn’t admit it if he was. He takes pride in his ability to read people and situations.

But, ultimately, the surprise was not the point.

How many times do you get together with your best buddies from high school and college, along with your wife, mom, stepdad, siblings, in-laws, even your 80-something grandparents — the people who got you into trouble over the years and the people who got you out? Not too many times.

Well, enough of all that.

I mean, “30.”

———

The Voices column is written by a rotating team of New Era staffers. It appears Mondays.

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