Mother Time Comes For Us All

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.

Until yesterday.

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.