A Hair-Raising Experience

Lurking in the deep recesses, hiding from my detection, waiting to spring its unwelcome message on me, it lingered. I thought I had years until I found it. I thought I could somehow win this battle. But no. I cannot cheat Father Time any longer.
While I was brushing my teeth this morning, it suddenly appeared, sticking up a little higher than all the others. A white hair. AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. (Cue the Psycho music.)
I suppose it was bound to happen. Four kids would give any one grey (or in this case white) hair. But it wasn’t supposed to happen to me. My friend who is my same age posted on Facebook that her latest pregnancy was classified as “geriatric” because she is that magic age of 35. I thought that was preposterous. A 35 year-old? Geriatric? Maybe it’s not so preposterous after all. I have found a white hair. My care-free, color-free days may be coming to an end.
My unwelcome friend must have been there for a while since it is nearly the length of my bangs. Until my hubby recently replaced all the light bulbs in the bathroom mirror, whitey blended in with my sun-kissed highlights. If only the light bulbs hadn’t been replaced, I could go on, blissfully unaware that my youth has ended.
The trumpeting of the white hair cannot be ignored. It is time. Time to hike my pants up past my waist, eat a side dish of prunes with every meal and join that old lady tap class I keep telling my kids they are going to attend all recitals for whether they like it or not. (I figure their attendance is only a small payback for all the plays, games and recitals I’ve attended and will yet attend.)
Overreacting, you say? One little hair? You’re right.
Yank.
Ouch.
Gone.
The white hair can be our little secret. I can’t stand prunes anyway.

Even celebs have their grey hair issues.

Even celebs have their grey hair issues.

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