I can barely bring myself to write it, to think it, to entertain the thought of thinking it.
I found grey hair.
Not just one, lurking ominously as a promise of decay (but quickly pluckable, the evidence hastily disposed of), but a cluster, a clutch, a nest. Thankfully there aren't really THAT many (just enough for me to despair) and they’re hidden behind and under a lot of other normal coloured hair so that only someone with a magnifying mirror, a spotlight and a tendency to self-torture would happen across them.
But that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
Of course I did what any self respecting woman would do.
I cried.
Then I spent a considerable amount of time pulling them out, occasionally trailing into the living room where Jeremy sat trying to watch TV, presenting him with a torch (the lighting was dimmed) and pointing to the offending area. He said they looked blonde and it didn’t matter if they weren’t.
He lied.
So, that’s it – it’s happened. And I’m only 28. I wasn’t prepared – I thought I had at least until 30. I still have spots for goodness sake; surely it’s a great unfairness to have spots and grey hair. And I know some people get grey hair early, but they normally have very dark hair and I don’t so therefore it’s unacceptable. I'm not even sure 28 is early, it probably isn't, but I barely feel like an adult and my hair's already preparing for middle age.
I will stop obsessing. I will not google whether grey hairs in one location are a sign of brain tumor. I will not be vain. I will grow old gracefully. I will consider getting highlights and invest in some expensive face cream.
