In just under 7 months I’ll be turning the grand old age of 30. So far, I’m doing ok with that fact. I’ve been going grey for well over a year now – possibly longer but luckily for me my memory isn’t brilliant – and I’m ok with that too.
You see, my dad went grey in his late twenties so I’ve always been expecting it and it’s very slowly been creeping up on me. My little brother is going grey, as is Al, who coincidentally blames me for that.
At the moment it doesn’t seem to have taken over my whole head but is suspiciously spreading at the sides, through my beloved side fringe and sprouting into a little tuft precisely where my parting splits. Nice one genetics.
I saw my hairdresser this weekend and mentioned that said grey tuft was getting out of control and asked how the hell I try taming it. She said don’t, she thinks it’s cool. We compromised with a couple of blonder than blonde strands around said troublesome front parting but other than that, I’m going to learn to love it.
While I won’t be dying my whole head a Pinterest-worthy shade of pastel grey I’m ok with the fact that it’s coming and ready for war on my otherwise blonde head. I don’t care if people point it out or notice and I’m happy to wait seven weeks between hair appointments instead of five. I’m even slowly getting over the habit of plucking the wiry little buggers from said tuft as this only seems to cause three more to sprout.
Bring it on greys, I’m ready for ya!