^Black hair betraying me with its inability to hide my secret.
I'm pretty sure that I have a major problem internally recognizing my actual age. I'm 31 years old. And that's cool and dandy. I don't feel the need to pretend I'm a ripe 25-year-old or anything like that. In fact, I refuse to do that. I'd rather people think I look my actual age than like a really sh*tty, elderly version of whatever age I've lied to them about. So I will own all the rings in my tree trunk and avoid people going "OMG, she looks so effing tired and sallow for a 23-year-old...".
So when I say I have a problem recognizing my own age, it's not due to being embarrassed or anything in that realm. It has to do with the fact that I still mentally believe I'm in my mid-twenties at times. I get scared about levels of responsibility that are pretty normal for 30-somethings. I (sadly) cuss like a sailor (it's a bad habit!) offline. My friends and I text about the stupidest things known to man and then reflect on it like Vince Vaughn does in "Wedding Crashers".
However, I'm delighted and ashamed to announce that I will have prompt, 6-8 week sobering reminders that I'm heading out of the youthful promise land and into solid adulthood. This due to the few glistening silver hairs I've noticed against my black mop when it's time to get a touch-up. Rumor has it, they come in large numbers so I'm positive that I'll see more and more in the years to come.
All I can say is that I'm so grateful for hair dye. I bet all those women in those elderly pioneer photos (such as this one) were actually about 28 and just needed some d*mn bronzer, some mascara and a great colorist.
And for those amenities: I am grateful today.