So, there’s the whole “age gracefully” or “fight that fucker” dilemma that comes rearing for us all, sooner or later.
Recently, I’ve been finding more grey hairs. That is to say, “Saturday”. I think I plucked a good dozen out that afternoon. My mother died of cancer at 57 and was only THEN beginning to go grey. I’m just a bit alarmed. A dozen? Wow. Some part of me is freaked out that the grey hair comes retrofitted with a good dose of cancer, but I’m trying to ignore my inner-conspiracy theorist, thanks.
Granted, I’m not the type who stands there peering into her faults in the mirror. I take a boo here and there, but usually I shrug and move on. But this is grey hair we’re talking about! I stood there angling myself in the light, prying a lock here, toying with some strands there, constantly on the hunt for a new, kinky looking little white hair.
Fortunately, I still have to look if I’m gonna do the finding, but I’m a bit of a worrier. I’m concerned. I’m not even 35. I’m cooler in many ways than I’ve ever been, so what’s with this grey thing?
I suspect, however, that it’s all the jobless-stress and such I came down with in January. I bet these greys have been around for weeks, and it’s only because I was bored out of my mind and saw one pop up that I even noticed. The bad part was when I began tousling my hair in search for more errant strands of grey and pulled my hair aside only to discover a veritable thicket of grey. Five strands! In one tiny neighbourhood of my hair. Good god almighty! Five! Together! Like the Jacksons! Shit! Fuckety-fuck-fuck! What’s next, Geritol? Makes tired blood young!
Unthinkable! Me! Sweet, loveable, rebellious, “fuck-em-all” ME! Grey?! It’s just wrong. That’s what it is.
On the upside, though, I’m no longer jobless and stressed, so perhaps the foray into older, wiser, greyer Steff has been segued into the Continuing Adventures of the Steffchick instead. I think the latter sounds much more appealing.
Or I can kick my own miserly ass and occasionally spend a pretty penny on a dyejob.
And a word to the wise: Sure, it looks sexy, but the President’s Choice deep-dish “Chicago” style chicken & mushroom pizzza is a total write-off. Somewhere in the midst of the second slice, a piece of chicken finally emerged. I think it’s “Repression-era Chicago” style pizza, but I’ll spare you the semantics. Stick to the beef one. There’s beef in them thar slices. The chicken’s clearly on the run.