Sitting waiting for a meeting to begin last night, McBouncy looked at me with the smuggest smirk you ever saw in your whole life.
“What?” I asked suspiciously.
“It’ll ruin your day,” she said with barely masked pleasure.
“What?” I repeated, becoming nervous and fearful.
She leaned across and stroked my hair, then said in an uncharacteristically quiet whisper “There are three grey hairs right here”.
“WHAT?!” I exploded in utter fury, slapping her hand away from my head as she succumbed to a fit of mirth. She dodged my slaps and proceeded to rummage through my hair. “There’s one… there’s one… there’s one… ohhhh, here’s another one!”
McLovely leaned over her, intrigued. “Ach,” he snorted, inspecting my head, “sure there’s loads of them.”
I got up and stormed out (as best one can storm anywhere, when lame and limping), hearing McBouncy proclaiming my greyness to everyone in the room as I headed for the mirror in the Ladies’. Twisting and turning and muttering under my breath, I tried and failed to view the back of my head.
I am old. Old. And now my hair is letting everyone know about it. It’s normally clarried in so much hair gel that there could be green and pink hairs in there and you’d never notice. I’ve gone product-free this week due to reasons both financial (hair products very expensive) and personal (hair too long to spike up properly, haircut not happening until Monday night), and have been sporting a flat but rather chic sixties style instead.
Last time I do that.