Going grey downstairs. The dilemma nobody talks about.

I’ll never forget the day I found my first grey hair. I was about 32 and preening in a hotel room mirror while waiting for my dirty weekend date to turn up. I spotted the offending little beast and squealed like I’d found a rodent in a cupboard.

A few years later I began dying my hair.

Ten years later I was rubbing my chin in a thoughtful sort of way that made me look philosophical and smart. My finger bumped over something coarse, stumpy and strong. I ran to bathroom and leant forward to see a huge blue-grey hair. I plucked and recovered.

But I now carry tweezers in my car, in my handbag, in my kitchen and in my bathroom. I am ready for any protuberance to emerge at anytime but still don’t understand how one day my chin is smooth and the next it can have a long hair like witchy poo. They erupt faster than pimples did when I was a teenager.

A few months ago I began plucking rogue grey eyebrow hairs and occasionally a random red impostor that makes me wonder if I have Scottish ancestry despite being of Greek heritage.

Last night, a whole new terror arose. I was quietly indulging in my greatest pleasure. That involves lying in bed, reading a novel, drinking a glass of wine and softly stroking my muff. It’s a pleasure young women may not know because they prefer to look like plucked chickens, but I always find it incredibly calming.

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Anyway, there I was, stroking my pet pubes when I realised one hair felt different; my hand stopped, hovered and clutched to find the culprit was coarser, longer and stronger than the rest of my hair. I let my fingers fly like they do when I’m inspecting the dog for ticks. I found another. Slowly I looked down in a manner reminiscent of how children turn around in horror movies to face the monster. And there they were. Two grey pubic hairs.

Straight. Like they had had a keratin treatment. Coarse like they had been burst from a barren field. Grey like a badger.  As strong as wire and as white as snow.

I can handle the grey head hairs, the chin hairs, and the wrinkles while still getting pimples but really, a grey vagina! I'm not ready for this. It was not in the brochure.

Yet there is no break. No respite. No holding back the grey tide, try as I might with my trusty tweezers. This is the beginning of the end. Grey hair has less pigment so it can’t be lasered. It’ll be hard to hide when it pokes out from the cottontails. But it’s not even about the look. Grey pubic hair shows a creeping atrophy on the place that gave forth life. It’s a shadow on my place of pleasure.

I am told it all goes grey eventually. In the meantime, it’s getting sparser, possibly due to plucking. My vagina looks more vulnerable. Like a bush field that’s been partially felled, sparser and less protected.

I bet any young hipster who dyes their hair grey won't be buying a grey merkin to put over their Barbie Doll mounds in an act of ironic cool.

And I bet you another thing. There won’t be a fetish club that worships ladies who go grey down under.

I’ve just found out you can dye your pubic hair:

I’m thinking of asking my hairdresser to make the drapes match the carpet. Or dying it purple like my nana did with her head hair. Or maybe I’ll just give into grey. I’m 42 now and thinking perhaps fifty shades of grey will be AOK.