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.