I found a gray hair the other day. On my head. Still attached. It’s not like some old person went walking by, showering me with some of his gray hairs. This one was mine. Which means that I’m dying, of course. I’ve always known I was getting older, and that one day I’d die. But until I saw that gray hair, I’d always somehow managed to avoid thinking about it too closely. I’m not even thirty. I’m not supposed to have gray hairs.
Okay. I’m over it now. Especially since the wife said I’ll look “distinguished.” I’m thinking about going and getting some gray hair dye after work today. Because if that’s all it takes for me to go from goofy looking to distinguished, I should have done it years ago.