oh, pluck it
"Is that a grey hair?" Paul asked as he looked at the back of my head. "A what?!" "I think you have a grey hair." "Pull it out! Pull it out!!" And with one tug, Paul laid the colourless strand of hair in my hand as I stared at it in disbelief. I've never had a grey hair before. Ever. When I go to the hairdresser's, they often ask if I dye my hair (it's very dark) and I proudly tell them that it is all natural. I have no need to dye my hair, for no grey hairs have I. Hah! I laugh at you, Miss Clairol! But what will become of me now that I've sprouted this old lady strand of hair? Is this a sign of things to come? Or can we chalk it up to pregnancy weirdness? Let's opt for the latter.
To be honest, I've never really cared that much about aging. When I was 25, a friend's girlfriend used to warn me of the perils of becoming her age - the ripe old age of 30. "When you get to be my age," she'd always warn, then she'd go on about having to slather yourself with lotion and sit under large floppy hats when you're out in the sun. So 30 came and went, and really, it wasn't terribly eventful. My face didn't fall off, my skin didn't turn to scales, and in fact, life got a hell of a lot better. I never understood people who described themselves as "approaching" a certain age, with a distinct tone of dread. When you're 35, I don't think you can really say that you're approaching 40. Even a 5 year old is approaching 40; they'll get there one day. To me, approaching an age means you're about to celebrate that particular birthday in the coming year. So, I'm approaching 36 and I'm not that bothered about it.
Except if that grey hair comes back with more of its friends, then I'll be annoyed.