I pulled eight white hairs from my fringe this morning.
Im sure they werent there yesterday. Indeed, Id place money on the fact. Not MUCH money. But certainly some money.
But there I was on this mornings train, nonchalantly putting my make-up on after the gym, enjoying the sunshine, and idly thinking about big plans for my upcoming (well, upcoming in the sense of two months away) big birthday, and, as I pinned my fringe back, my eye was caught by the glinting of a thick white strand.
Hair. White hair. My hair. Bad hair. Boo.
This in itself was not a problem; it was a surprise, but not a problem: They come every now and again, these aberrations, these personal-horrors, these freaks of hairline. One hairs. White hairs. My hairs. Bad hair. Booo. At least only one at a time. Phew.
So the other one next to it was a bit of a surprise. The rules of being an aberration clearly state that youre not supposed to pop up next to another aberration. Or, oh, hang on a tick, millimetres away from a third one. Shitshitshit.
Once I started looking, I saw glints of white at every angle, and with a sharp semi-painless pull (yowfuck!) they were gone.
Eventually I snapped my mirror shut and pulled the pin out of my fringe, hiding my roots away. If I couldnt see them, they were not there. Because they certainly werent there yesterday, I can say that for absolute.
Now though? Aberrations everywhere. Something must have happened overnight, or in the last few days, at least. A temperature change? Aliens? Stress? Or perhaps some chemical in the water Id so recently been sticking my head under post-gymming. Yes, that must be it.
Though getting worried while writing this, and on the train again, Ive pulled out my mirror to check that I got them all, and Yowfuck! Bother. Its the light on this train then. Thats whatll be doing it. Bloody light. Oooh! Yowfuck!
It only means one thing though – or one thing for certain:
– I need to buy some hair dye, or Im going to go bald.
And dont come at me with that Grow Older Gracefully crap. Ive never done anything with grace in my life. I sneeze like a moo-cow, flirt like a drunken nun and regularly trip over my own feet. Grace to me is a foreign language. Grace is a dance to which I dont know the steps. Grace is a nation that has never stamped my passport.
Ive never been friends with Grace, and I see no reason to start now. Let disgrace be our watchword.
Someone pass the hair dye.
And get me a vodka and tonic while youre up, youngun.