Indulge me, will you, as I continue on with my perpetuating of stereotypes of women about to hit 30: I found a gray hair today. And by gray I mean white. Heloise white. It's not the first one I've found, but I'll be damned if they don't jump up and surprise me every time. By the looks of things, I'm going to end up with crazy cat lady hair when I'm old. That is, unless I go for the timeless short haircut that all old ladies seem to have.
Long story short, I ripped the hair out. There's probably more where it came from, but as long as I can't see them, I don't want to know about them. And I thought hair coloring was a thing of my youth, like piercings, tattoos and flannel. I'm not there yet, but I imagine that when the white becomes the majority party in the nation known as my scalp, I'll probably be vain enough to do something about it. I wonder if I'll ever feel that way about Botox. Is that even a proper noun?
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