One Shade of Grey

I was blow drying my hair the other day and I saw it.  Just hanging out there, like a hard-faced silver interloper.  Yes, there it was.  A grey hair.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  At 39, I know I’ve had a good innings, and it’s not actually my first.  I’ve got a couple of baby fine silvery strands at my right temple, only visible during the most extreme episodes of tying my hair back (pretty much just when I put a face pack on).  But this devil was on my part.  And as if to mock me even further, it hid when I brushed my hair, smug in the knowledge that I know it’s there and now I can’t find it.  I’m on high alert, ready for it to pop up at any point.  The good thing for me is that I’m nearly 6 foot tall, so not many people see the top of my head, but now I know it’s there and I wish I carried a hat off with more panache.

I know I’ve done well to get to this age without more grey, and all my forays into home colouring have been for the fun of it, but does this mean I’m actually going to have to start reading ‘root application’ instructions?  That seems like a job for the professionals.  I’ve taken after Father’s side of the family, and take comfort in the knowledge that he pretty much kept all of his hair colour until his early sixties.  Mother’s side had to embrace grey at a much earlier age, although of course Mother herself is a natural blonde…

So now I will have to add ‘Grey Watch’ to the list of beauty things to do, because I’ll no more embrace grey hair than I will bushy eyebrows or hairy legs.  But the real truth is that if I find the blighter again, it’s very likely I’ll rip it out, throwing caution to the old ‘two will grow back’ warning.  Because if I’ve got to touch up my roots for one, it hardly matters if there’s two!  Either that, or embrace hats.