Holy fuck, it's happened.
Here I was, basking in my youth, frolicking about in the summer sun and living in my prime. Living in ignorance, and yes it was bliss.
Yesterday I was actually brushing my hair which has become a rarity during my summer holidays. (Don't judge me.)
The light shone directly on to my dark brown locks, but I did a double-take when one of those hairs glittered back at me in the mirror.
I HAVE A GREY HAIR. I'M TWENTY-FUCKING-SIX.
I'd like to tell you I'm above age insecurities, and that I recognise that one little baby hair that's come up grey doesn't make me old any more than the time I dyed my hair fire-engine red made me Ronald McDonald.
|Even Ronald doesn't have greys yet.|
Look, I didn't think I was invincible. I knew it would happen, and before it did I wasn't particularly dreading the day it did. I just wasn't expecting to spot a grey so bloody early!
Should I go on a mid-life crisis? Perhaps I'll trade my sensible Nissan Pulsar in for a sexy Lexus, with a topless buff man feeding me grapes from the passenger seat. He should definitely be younger than I am- so many middle age men live by 'You're only as old as the person you're feeling', so surely they are on to something.
|Just hanging around, waiting for me to pick him up in my fancy new ride.|
So you're telling me he is older than 26? Be quiet you, with your facts. This is my midlife crisis fantasy, not yours.
But alas; I've grown quite fond of Billasaurus, and as a uni student can't afford anything other than my trusty 2 litre Pulsar.
Have you got greys yet? You can tell me, I'm a trusted elder now. I'm wise.