Ode to the days of moi:
I look at myself in the mirror and spy a stiff little alpha hair right at the edge of my hairline--it's gray and it's right on schedule; actually, it's running behind--I'm almost thirty-seven, even almost forty, if I want to permit myself to freak about something that's inevitable.
So I try not to freak and as I tear the vanity drawer apart in search of my trusty Tweezerman to rip out the cancer, a slew of rules assaults me and I realize why I cannot do it--then I'll damage the follicle, it won't grow back, I'll make a habit out of yanking the grays, and I'll eventually be bald instead of having a lush wiry jungle full of grays.
I opt to color it with a brown Sharpie instead . . .
