The end is nigh

I parted my hair on the other side today.

During my daily morning break preening in the staffroom toilet mirror, I found a white hair.

Granted, it was only a couple of inches long. Granted, the end that was not attached to my scalp was tapered and not coarse, as though it had once been a hair of normal hue, but the shock of something had stripped it of its shade. Granted, it was buried beneath a lot of other normal-coloured hairs, and could have been mistaken for a particularly bright blonde one (there are a lot of blonde hairs on that side of my scalp, unusually). But, it's still not a good sign. In fact, I take it as an indication that I am not the bearer of Mother Hand's lucky, hardly-any-grey-before-50 genes, or Maternal Gran's luckier, still-got-some-colour-at-83-thank-you-very-much. Instead, I appear to be laden with Father Hand's....let's just say, not-so-lucky genes. I suppose it was always on the cards.

I pulled out the offending hair and put it in my handbag. I shall take it home and tape it into my journal, as a reminder that vanity can only be the indulgence of the young.