I found a grey pube the other day.
I must say I did a double take, as I am not in the habit of inspecting my pubic area and FUCK ME DEAD AM I OLD NOW?
To console myself I decided it was just the carpet matching the drapes and after giggling like a 15 year old boy, I realised that that means that I AM FUCKING OLD NOW.
There was a girl at my high school that went prematurely grey – salt and pepper they called it – and I never understood why she didn’t just dye the shit out of her hair. Our school was militantly anti hair dyeing, but she could have dyed it fucking BLUE and claimed it was a medical condition…
But now, in my OLD AGE, I see why not.
As more of my hair is going grey, no thanks to my uber stressful life that couldn’t even give me a cool lock of grey like the mum in Poltergeist
or the chick in Nightmare on Elm St,
I am finding that a few weeks after chucking a pack of supermarket dye on my head and calling it good I develop a halo of grey around my face.
And a stripe down the top of my head.
Sure, it is not COMPLETELY grey the majority being my forever elusive ‘natural colour’, but it is enough to sparkle in the fluorescent lights in the bathroom at work and look like I have tinsel in my hair.
And I fucking hate tinsel with all of my being.
I try and leave it as long as possible. To where I am looking at permanent markers and wondering if they are my shade, or tempted to pluck the sideburn greys while decimating my eyebrows, and then I HAVE to do something about it lest the light catch it and the glare of it blind someone or start a fire.
I am responsible like that.
So today I will slap on some hair dye, which is no mean feet with my fucked up frozen shoulders, but that halo has got to go.
It is bushfire season after all.