What if every gray hair told a story?

They are out-numbered.

It’s bad.

The hair.

On my head.

It’s horrible.

The grays are starting to form a nasty army of ammunition attacking my scalp like troops taking over Normandy in WW2.  

My natural brunette strands are falling to the wayside in mass quantities and are officially marching on their sorrowful way of becoming out-numbered.

I nearly shat myself this morning when methodically inspecting the astounding numbers of gray hairs which flank my forehead and ear line.  There are patches that are completely gray with no sight of my old brunette color being able to break through the clutter.

I am losing the battle of age-less perfection.

Poorly.

I stared back at myself in the mirror with eyes filled with tears on the verge of turning into my spout into the ravaging falls at Niagra Falls.

That Mirror.

You know, that pressed glass that reflects back what you hate to see.

That pressed glass that only shows your imperfections.

It’s almost as bad a that creepy thing called a camera lens which I absolutely have being in front of.

The Mirror.

The one thing in the house that constantly reminds you life is passing you by and you better get on board or you are going to be left behind like a mysterious backpack at the airport waiting on the bomb squad to come inspect it after clearing out the terminal.  Ok, exaggeration, sure.  But when the fuck did I get old?

I feel 24.

My hair has aged beyond my years on earth.

Depressing.

The other night I had a panic dream attack in which I had aged severely overnight and woke up with leathery-ridden, wrinkled skin.  Holy shiznit.

I’ve been lathering up on SPF make-up and protective layers of cream in the morning and at night in preparation for this.   

Emotionally there is nothing that can truly prepare you for the fact that you are officially a grown-up and the aging process is going to going to be sped up from here on out.

And with that, I should just go suck down a pack of smokes and a fifth of whiskey because it is easier to wallow in my aging disappointment rather than just accepting the physical truths of life. 

On a more positive note, Oil of Olay, I’m coming for ya!

And to my Hair Colorist, you are one of my true Saviors on this Planet we call Earth.

Sara, I'll see you in the chair promptly at 9AM on Saturday morning.

Please help me turn back time.

Please?

Via