I am not having a good morning.
Which is really nothing new or exciting on a work day, but I digress.
I was doing my hair this morning, because I got it cut in a way that dictates I have to blow dry it every fucking day. Not my best call, but it's uber cute.
Long with chunky layers and side swept bangs. Very Ashlee Simpson when her hair was good. But again, not my point.
I know I live a high stress life, mostly because I'm just like my mother and if there's something on the planet to worry about, I'll find it and freak out about it. When you get us together, it's like a race to see who can give themselves a bleeding ulcer first.
This morning while I was busy making my bangs all side swept, and worrying whether or not I'd ever get a new contract, sell my book proposal, finish the book proposal, find someone who will tolerate me, get married, and find the perfect shoes something in the mirror caught my eye.
I have a grey fucking hair.
Well, I had a grey fucking hair, as my initial reaction was to scream "What the fuck?!" and pluck it out so fast I almost went back in time.
I am not happy. I'm turning 27 in August, and I don't feel that old. Not even close. But apparently the wrinkle on my forehead (That no one can notice but me but as soon as I get on my feet I fully plan on Botox-ing the shit out of), and my hair think otherwise.
I will not age gracefully and you can't make me.
Suck on that.