growing old gracefully

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A student on Tuesday was ever-so kind to me. You need to dye your hair again! she told me. Are my grey hairs coming back?! I asked. You know, I might just leave it. Or maybe be really outrageous. Perhaps a shade of royal blue. Apparently both are a feasible option in her opinion, even though I'm older than her mum. The grey might look nice because some people suit it. I'm not sure about blue though, whatever she says. I always wanted to dye my hair an outrageous colour. The most adventurous I ever was was when I had bright red streaks. I actually have no idea what my natural hair colour is now. It might be auburn. It could be dark brown. It might even be completely grey. {As an aside, I was reading a hair magazine in a hair theory lesson and a hairdresser being interviewed said that she always talked about white hair with her clients, not grey. The reason? It might offend them. I don't know about anyone else, but being told I have white hair at this stage in my life would make me feel ridiculously old. At least the term grey brings with it the idea of an in-between stage, a gentle meander along the Lane of the Middle-aged; white is what comes with the final burst of activity, that somersault into the Field of Death.} The point is, I've been lathering on the hair dye since Mumsy first allowed me to when I was thirteen. I have used various shades of copper, red, purple, and occasionally black, and now my hair is made up of a mixture of these colours, and different colours shine through and become more noticeable when attracted to the light. I tend to get bored and use a different colour each time. And whereas each time was once twice a year, it then became three times a year, then four, now five or six ... The grey hairs on my head are like weeds; pull one up/out and another magically appears, seemingly growing in front of your eyes. Growing old is such hard work.