A Grey Christmas.

I found a grey hair a couple of weeks ago, silver actually, and it’s a long mofo that one, one of the longest on my head.  Yes, I found it on my head, where else would I have found it?  Don’t answer that…  So this hair, how now?  This is the thing, grey hair comes early in my family.  My eldest sister had grey hair in her 20’s, the rest in their early 30’s, it’s a miracle I got this far without any, or so I thought.  And then I found it, all 4 inches of it.  No, I didn’t measure it, I’m not that OCD, yet, it’s a wild guess based on what I think 6 inches looks like.  What now?  Why are you looking at me like that?  You bloody perverts, what 6 inches are you thinking about?  I’m thinking of that small ruler in the mathematical sets we used to carry around in primo, and I know you weren’t thinking about those same 6 inches, were you now?  Like I said, bloody perverts.  Nkt!  Where was I?  Ah yes, my silver hair.  I’m not sure I want to go grey just yet.  More to the point, I’m not sure how my head will grey.  It may be like my mother’s, grey only at the hairline for ages, or it might be like my father’s, grey all over, overnight it seemed, or it might be a hybrid, grey in patches, like the actors on stage with no make-up budget and a bagful of chalk dust.  And how will I look grey?  I don’t like colour in my hair, I’m not sure I can handle being silver.  Then again, silver might be quite nice, look at the first missus, her hair makes her white tops look quite stunning, and I do like a white top…

And all this from one grey hair.  Imagine what my day is like when I find blood in my poo…  Stop cringing, you obsess over your shit too, no?  No?  Shit.

This is going nowhere, just so you know, nowhere at all.

Grey hair is a strange thing.  It’s completely natural, but we go out of our way to deny its existence.  We dye our hair back to its ‘natural’ colour, or shave it off when and where we can, whatever it takes for our age not to show on our heads.  Are we ashamed of getting older, or is it the fear of impending death signalled by our advancing years?  I used to think it’s the former.  I used to think that the fear of going grey was pure vanity, not wanting to acknowledge the passing of years, wanting to cling on to the blush of youth.  Perhaps it is, but faced with my own impending greyness, I’m coming to realise the reluctance to go grey has more to do with our image of ourselves, and not the image others have of us.  I don’t feel old enough to have grey hair.  I don’t feel as old as I am.  In my head, and to a certain extent my body, I still feel 25, then I look in the mirror and see the little wrinkles around my eyes, and my one silver hair, and it hits me that I’m no longer a young girl.  How now?

Last Christmas I gave you my heart,
But the very next day, you gave it away,
This year, to save me from tears,
I'll give it to someone special...

I love George Michael in ways one should never love a gay man, but in my defence, when I fell in love with him he was still straight, at least publicly.  Of course, looking back at the Wham! videos it seems somewhat obvious, but I was young and infatuated, and the concept of a gay man was far beyond my comprehension.  ‘Last Christmas’ is the Christmas song for single people.  None of that happy clappy nonsense, sijui ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Santa Claus Is Coming To Town’, nooooo…  This is a musical ‘Fuck you!’ to whoever, or whatever, fucked you over this past year.  I’d like to dedicate this to my former love, Amolo, he that embraced the polycolor with reckless abandon (and in the process managed to kick me and mine to the curb).  Boss, I get it now.  Or not.  No, definitely not.  

These are my options tonight, a night of song and dance at the almost local with a bunch of deviants who have somehow managed to instil the fear of God into me, for real, or a night on the sofa with Dexter and a cup of tea.  Hmmm…  Deviants or serial killer?  Considering the strange men I meet in bars these days, I’m not sure there’s any difference.  Oh well, such is life.  Merry Christmas, my lovelies.  Be happy, be safe, be good (or not).