Grey hair is more coarse than brown. Not quite pubic. Just assertive enough to ruin that youthful windblown look I’ve always wanted.
I turned 38 on Sunday. It was fine. Life has been amazing lately, but very stressful. And it’s all self-imposed, which is a stupid thing to do at this age. I took today and yesterday off to celebrate and found myself giddy and excitable at the Wild Oat reading about a new drug that can reverse heart disease. It could have been the double latte. Then I walked through the Glebe Emporium and got strange looks fondling a banana protector (I didn’t know what it was, or how to get it open. $5.95). I was there looking for a stainless steel Paderno frying pan ($130) because no-stick is now toxic. Ugh. Mortality’s a real pain in the ass. Oh, yeah, I’m also obsessing over a sore tailbone. It’s either cancer or the lingering effect of being kicked in the butt wrestling last week with Jasper. I have a fuzzy memory of yelling “Owch!” on the carpet, but that could be my mind playing tricks, or just forgetting. They say that’s inevitable too. More tomorrow on water soluble hair goo for pube-like locks.
