I may be slightly disillusioned here, but I would like to believe that I am capable of ageing gracefully. My mother has aged gracefully which gives me hope and for the most part, I think I'm doing okay. Sure there's that well set crease in my forehead (thanks mum for bringing that to my attention a few years back, love you x) and those little 'smile' lines crinkling up the edges of my eyes. Sure, some mornings it takes a good couple of hours for the crease mark left by the pillow, the one running from the edge of my eyebrow to my chin, to fade and smooth out. Sure, I'm a little self-conscious of the thinning hair near my part (again, thanks to my grandmother for pointing out that I should probably try parting in different places to avoid a bald spot, love you too xx).
But, and it's a big BUT, there is one element of the ageing process that I am struggling with.
There you are in the bathroom, humming happily away and things are looking good. The eyebrows are neat and co-operative, the concealer has done it's job and covered those pesky under-eye shadows, yep, it's gonna be a good day, just have to dry the hair and you're ready to face the day head on.
You're almost done, you tilt your head and raise your brush and....there........RIGHT THERE.....glinting cheekily in the morning light, heck, standing in a happy little mass and waving at you, is a cluster of grey hairs. Have you been there yet ? I'm not talking a single strand here, they don't even register as a blip on the radar they're so quickly yanked and disposed of. No, this is the silver collective, taking comfort with the safety in numbers motto. These are the hairs that defy hairspray and laugh at your attempts at styling. They're little crinkly buggers and I just don't like them.
There is, however, a lovely little solution to morphing into the Silver Vixen, and in my case her name is Ingrid. She is my saviour and she works magic. So my little grey nemesis, laugh while you still can, because next week, you'll be getting a make-over. Alright.
5 years ago