Just a Number?

Everybody told me not to worry about turning 40. "It's just a number," they said. "Your life will be no different," they said. "You'll love being 40," they said. 

They all lied.

I have been dying my hair for two decades. For the past 20 years my hair color has been a source of self-expression. I have sported blond, red, black, various shades of brown and auburn and on one occasion blue locks. I used to love walking into the pharmacy and randomly picking a box, paying no regard to the strength or longevity of the color. 

I swear my hair turned silver the moment I turned 40. I no longer dye it for fun. Rather, now find myself desperately trolling the hair color aisle trying to find a color, any color, that will cover the extremely stubborn grey. I have wasted a lot of time, and money, pretending that I could use the more contemporary colors. The fun brands aren't strong enough, and I am relegated to the strong smelling, scalp burning applications. 

Ironically, the hair that seems to be sprouting from my chin and upper lip have retained their dark brown pigment. What's up with that?

Yesterday while I was plucking even more chin hairs, I noticed a dark spot on my cheek. I rewashed my face, thinking (and hoping) it was soot from the fireplace. Frustrated that I couldn't scrub it off, I went to the internet to find a verdict. I either have ring worm, or it is an age spot. I have been wearing a huge glob of anti-fungal cream for 24 hours, hoping against hope that I have ringworm. 

After checking on the still omnipresent spot, Robby asked me to put more lead into his pop-a-point pencil. Without hesitation I picked up the pencil and lead and proceeded on auto-pilot. After all, I think that 35 years experience qualifies me as a refilling expert. 

When did that lead become so thin and the hole so minuscule? Seriously, I don't remember it being that difficult. I ended up standing next to the lamp, trying to get a better look at what I was doing.  The illumination didn't help; I couldn't see to refill the pencil. I found myself pulling the pencil towards and away from me like an "old lady," trying to find a distance where I could focus. I ended up throwing the pencil in the trash, telling Robby that it was broken.

Rummaging through the drawer to find a replacement, sporting a big old glob of fungal cream on my age spot, I cursed the fact that I have become the "old lady." I am sure, at some point in time, I will learn to embrace my age.  That time is not now.