"No seriously, I think it could potentially be blonde," I argue with Mike, the corners of his mouth turned up in amusement, a look on his face that could only be classified as smug as I shared my latest discovery with him.
"No honey - that there, is gray. Silver if it makes you feel a bit better. I know you like sparkly things."
Inner dialogue moment: Oh, that's ever so helpful hubby. Try again. By the way, don't even make me count the amount of salt and pepper sprinkled into your 'do since your retreat into fatherhood and your 30s. And I'm so not buying that line that it makes you look "sophisticated" because you're a man. Total BS.
Inspecting the fistful of hair I had actually pulled from my head (generally I can rely on L for this), I let reality set in that this indeed, was a gray. Yet another indicator that I had recently entered into motherhood and my 30s. Add to that my list of creaky joints (my knees wake Mike and the dog in the night), sad injuries that would've never phased me just a few years back and all kind of saggy, wobbly bits that gravity has taken over. That, and a lack of care to work out I guess. But I'm going to go ahead and blame age.
A gray hair - just one little gray hair - has turned me into a believer of hair dye, plastic surgery with taste and vitamins meant for the post menopausal. Holy vanity.
I think this is all because I logged into the sexual predator web site the other night to see what monsters prey nearby...
Brining this up again ensures I will find another gray this evening. Maybe I should turn on "Saved by the Bell" instead...
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