Last year I decided would be a good time to get my grey out. I had a couple of comments - I believe one was "You'd totally rock grey!" - which convinced me to let the beast loose. With the silvery shine my part would show only a mere three weeks after my last dye job I was positive I could become a ashen beauty if I just gave it free rein and let it gallop away with my scalp.
So I did. For the past ten months I haven't dyed my hair. I have let nature run it's course. Displayed my badge of wisdom for all to behold. Shown I'm not afraid of ageing.
Which I'm not actually. Well, except for the idea that old people aren't allowed to have sex anymore because that ain't something I'm giving up anytime soon, thank you very much. And I don't care how much it may embarrass any future offspring. Yes, your father and I shag. Deal.
Depressingly, however, I discovered that my much admired regrowth turned into much blerghed full growth. In the wonderful portraits of my new do I am actually as grey as it is currently possible for me to be. So, yeah, there's a few around, quite a gathering over my left eye in fact, and the back of my head is certainly not to be sneezed at by any advanced-age afficiando, but not enough to look halfway decent in a resplendent sterling sort of way.
So I've called it quits. the experiment is over. Done. You may now call me DrJ Longstocking if you'd like.