I’m back home after a day-plus jaunt to see the family and celebrate the oldest nephew’s birthday. I’m hungry, my flea-ridden animals need a bath, the apartment is — once again — filthy, I’ve got lots of e-mail- and blog-post reading to catch up on, I’ve got about 400 photos from the weekend to process, and I’ve got a few actual posts of my own knocking around in my head that I may actually sit down and work on.
Speaking of the oldest nephew, he did me the courtesy of noticing my second grey hair this weekend. What a sweetheart!
Are you going to let yourself go gray when the time comes? Ever since Mrs. Gilchrist’s class I’ve lusted after my own full head of gray hair. Her hair looked fabulous.
I’d like to say that I will, but I am fond of hair dye, so I can’t rule out the possibility of dyeing for reasons other than vanity (namely boredom). I honestly didn’t think I’d even have to think about it before I turned thirty. What a crock!
Aw, hun (speaking in grandmother tone), don’t you worry. I got my first gray at 23. The second popped up around 25 well into grad school. Then a whole crop of them popped up around 27 when I was going through a bad time, but then they slacked off. I pluck the ones along my part and ignore the rest. But people will think it’s funny to make fun of them until you’re 30. Then they’ll stop. Because it’s not cool to make fun of old people for that shit.