Ani MollerZero content, 100% of the time

The other day on my way home from work, I was waiting at an intersection for the green man to give me permission to cross. It was rush hour and people were trying to squeeze the most out of the amber lights as possible, which of course means cars stuck across the intersection when the light finally turns red. A woman had stopped her car right on the crossing in front of me, with some cars pulling up behind her. A guy on the other side of the road sensed she wouldn’t be moving, and as the green man flashed at us he proceeded to cross behind her stuck car. At this moment, she suddenly started reversing without checking her mirrors, almost hitting the guy crossing. He jumped back and then walked in front of the car, as he probably should have in the first instance, although this would have put him right in the intersection where cars were turning. As I pass, I look at her, point at the man, and mouth, “You almost hit that man.” She obviously wasn’t trained in the art of lip-reading, so she wound her window down to talk to me. I walked over and repeated, “You almost hit that man.” She looked at me and said, “Yeah…well?”

Yeah, well?!

“Yeah, well, that would have sucked. The nightmares and demerit points would have sucked too!”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t and even though I am a stupid driver I’m okay until the next time! Praise the Lord!”
“Yeah, well, did you hear that joke about the pope and the donkey? Hi-larious!”

Yeah, well, you are a retard.

Nine days before my 28th birthday, today, I finally located what I had believed to be a grey hair, one I thought I had been seeing for a few weeks. At first, when the fluorescent bathroom lights at work made the colour-void strand gleam I thought I was mistaken. I thought, perhaps it was actually a blonde hair lightened by the summer sun even though my hair is actually brown. I thought, perhaps it was just the blindingly white overhead lights playing tricks on my eyes. Then I thought, shit, perhaps I actually have a grey hair. So every day after washing my hands, I searched for the little bugger. And what happens when you look for things? You find things. And I have found my first grey hair.

After finding My First Grey Hair, the first thing I did was ask my boyfriend if he would still love me if I had grey hairs. He said yes, but of course he isn’t going to say no. There is a chance that on the inside he is thinking, “Oh shit, my girlfriend is getting old, I really hope she starts dying her hair soon.” The only problem with that is I really like the colour of my hair. The brilliant beauty of my brown hair that sometimes shines blonde and sometimes shines red and seems to have natural highlights and lowlights can not be reproduced in a bottle. Nor will it be able to be reproduced by paying someone I can’t see with my glasses off many, many dollars many, many times a year. Just thinking about the cost and time it would take to start dying my hair to cover grey makes me immediately think of all the shiny, new things I could buy instead – like one-third of a Nikon D300. Once I start dying my hair, what comes next? Botox? Chemical peels? Expensive shoes to draw attention away from my hair?

So here I am, nine days before my 28th birthday, with a grey hair on the top of my head. I have not pulled it out, and I have not decided if I am going to dye my hair. Instead, I am going to reflect upon this glorious aging process for a little while longer, and thank Christ my boobs are still pert.

For a bit longer at least.