Today has been one of those frustrating-ass days when literally all I have done at work is fart around online. Oh, and take an hour and a half long lunch to nosh on crab wontons and watch episodes of Addicted (like Intervention but without the joys of having Jeff Van Vonderen say the same thing to every meth head he counsels)
on Netflix in my office. I say it’s frustrating because sometimes I prefer to be busy. Surfing the internet for 8 hours can be boring, especially when sites you’d normally look at (insert your own private thought here) are blocked at work. There is only so much gossip about what 26 year old Demi Moore has in her bony-ass claw that I can handle in a 24 hour period. (Girl, you are now freed from the world’s biggest douchebag manchild. Flourish. Go find someone with chest hair. I spoke to Bruce Willis and he concurs.)
(Tom Selleck and his hairy chest: always, forever. And he’s a Republican. SWOON.)
So I’m vainly staring at myself in the bathroom mirror at work the other day when I noticed something. (And no, I didn’t go to the bathroom just to stare at myself. I actually had bidness to attend to.) I peered back at my reflection and leaned forward. No, I thought. Surely not. I went over to the full-length mirror and got eyeball to eyeball with my own reflection. And there it was, straggling up toward the light. Wiry. Belligerent in its marked difference. A wayward soul.
A motherfucking gray hair.
Oh hell no, I said out loud to no one. I almost ripped myself bald trying to pluck it out, which I did. Also, because it’s my nature to be both sentimental and weird, I saved it. I held it between my thumb and forefinger and brought it back to my office. I was still in disbelief.
Maybe it’s blonde, I figured. Maybe it’s a strand I missed the last time I colored my hair. I laid the hair on a black surface and stared at the truth. Gray as gray can be. My very first. I texted Paolo. To which he replied, “Shish. Shush.” I left the hair in a special spot on my desk, where it still sits. (A testament to the cleaning crew no doubt.)
I know plenty of people who went gray at early ages, and most of them wear it well. Especially the dudes. They get all Clooney and shit with age. Women? Well, put it to you this way: I feel more like Kathy Bates than Diane Keaton. I do not feel regal. Guys on dating websites don’t want to bang the fat, gray haired chick.
(While I think Paula Deen is very attractive for someone her age, it’s entirely too soon for me to embrace my inner memaw.)
Which is why my ass is going to CVS post haste to get my Perfect 10 haircolor. Gray? I’ll be goddamned. I saw a picture of a 91 year old women today who is a full-out ginger, and that’s the kind of bitch I want to be. Faking it until my dying day. I started using Sun-In back in the 80s and haven’t seen my natural haircolor sense. And now ain’t a time to start.
Still, it’s not like I’ll have that preserved look about me. You know the look I’m talking about. Those women who fight age until their knuckles bleed. The ones who are pinched, plucked, sucked and pulled tighter than a drum (Adrienne from Real Housewhores of Beverly Hills, I am looking at you).
I mean, it’s not like I have a lot to preserve, for one thing. It’s not like I can exactly recall a time when I’d like to press pause and freeze that version of me because I’ve always been dissatisfied. (Correction: I’ll take early spring, 2005. I looked pretty good then. Not perfect, not ideal, but good.)
I always assumed aging wouldn’t happen to me, mainly because I feel eternally 15. There’s a large part of me that has Peter Pan syndrome out the ass. I’m just in denial that it could ever happen to me. I’ll lose my hearing, get diabetes, and break a hip all while wondering how that can happen to someone my age. I think I would feel more my age if I had a mortgage, a spouse and kids to be responsible for, too. I think that’s part of it. My thought is, I shouldn’t be allowed to get a stray gray until I’ve actually lived a little. I shouldn’t be able to get old until I am old, dammit.
