Oh, The Glories of Aging

So, I’m combing my hair and looking in the mirror and there are now a million grey hairs. Ten months ago when I got engaged my fiancé told me, “Stop dyeing your hair. I want to go grow old WITH you, not next to you.” Do you think men really mean that stuff when they say it? Every woman in my family going back for as far back as we can trace our family tree has dyed their hair when it began to grow grey. (And in some cases, before, but we won’t go into the Mexican woman’s propensity to dye their hair red or my brief stint with the punk culture). My Great-Grandmother had her hair dyed black until at the age of 102 my aunt (who took care of her) decided that she wanted her to look like an actual grandma and refused to take her to have her hair dyed. Within a month her entire head was glorious snow white. She died a year later. And I’m not saying there’s a corrolation, okay, maybe I am. I am thoroughly convinced that by some genetic anomaly that the women in my family are able to cheat death only by our constant supply of hair dyeing products. Who knows how old my Great-Grandmother would have gotten had she not been cut off from the elixir of life. Will I suffer the same fate if I don’t give in to what my genes demand? I think I have to make a run to the store…