As I stood in the lounge this morning, inhaling fresh, strong coffee to kick start my sleep fuddled brain (I fell asleep for an hour on the sofa at a party on Saturday night), I caught myself glancing into the mirror that I recently hung to finish one of the walls off.
My attention was not drawn to my somewhat stubbly face but rather to my hair. Now my hair and I have a simple arrangement. I go and get a hair cut and then for a few weeks it looks tidy, neat and smart. Then overnight I turn into a mountain man, which is the trigger for me going to get another £7.50 special at my local barbers.
However this morning my focus was not my mountain man like status, but the distinct and I daresay pronounced streaks of grey hair that I saw. I blinked carefully in case my eyes were playing tricks on me, alas they were not.
At the age of 32, I am going grey. I once complained to my father a couple of years ago that my receeding hairline was genetically his fault, I shall now add premature greying to that list.
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