Scheduling My Hip Replacements Already

Yesterday, standing under the uglifying fluorescent lights of the office bathroom*, realizing that, much though I love the new super-short haircut, it does at certain times whisper insinuatingly of Barry Manilow and not Audrey Hepburn, I received a shock.
I found my first grey hair.
It was actually more white than grey.
I've inherited my dad's man-hands and man-feet, concave ribcage, filthy temper, and inability to act normal in public, but not his lastingly youthful hair. Dammit.
Now, there's nothing wrong with a little grey hair, although personally I think premature greying looks better on the menfolk. Some women can carry it off gracefully - Stacy from TLC's What Not To Wear, for instance, with that grey streak dramatically framing her face. But me? No no, my first grey is this bright little wire of a hair standing in glorious prominence at the top center of my head. If that hair had life, instead of being only a chain of dead cells, it would have been be jumping up and down making "Sproing! Sproing!" sounds in between maniacal chuckles and muttered gibberish.
Needless to say, I leaned closer to the mirror, took aim, and yanked it out.
Problem solved - for now.


*the ladies' room that Scott and Tony use because they're too lazy to take the extra five steps needed to reach the men's.