Twelve years ago I got off a plane from four months backpacking around the world and one of the first things my mother said to me was "You've gone grey!". Which wasn't exactly what you wanted to hear as a spritely twenty-three year old, living up the jetsetting lifestyle of hostel dorm rooms, two-minute noodles and overnight Greyhound bus rides.
Of course, I did get my own back a minute later when I told her I'd spent her lovingly bestowed emergency travellers check in San Fransisco to get a tattoo.
But I digress.
Since then it's been a fight with the grey invader. When friends tell me they've got their first few grey hairs I scoff in disgust. For my regrowth is silver and I'm forced into a steady attendance at the hairdressers. Hi Kerstin!
So I came up with the plan of dying my hair grey anyway. I mean, I can't fight it, I'm sick of having to be at the hairdressers every four weeks. And if I manage to make it LOOK obviously dyed grey, then no one will think I actually AM grey.
Huh? Huh? See THAT'S some clever thinking there, that is.
It took me a while to talk over my normal hairdresser, a woman that deals with me coming in every month and saying "What stupid thing can I do to it today?".
Today, however, she was willing to give it a shot. Unfortunately, though, it took a long time just to get most of the colour out and we've decided to put off the next step - dyeing it grey - until my poor scalp has had a little while to recover. So for now I'm a odd kind of golden blonde with strawberry highlights and I must admit, for something different, I kinda like it.