I should start by saying that I don’t think I’m THAT vain.
I get my hair done.
I shave my legs.
I pluck my eyebrows.
I moisturise, but I am not obsessed with my wrinkles, and can’t be arsed to fork out a huge amount of money on anti-aging creams.
I try not to leave the house without make-up on. Mainly out of courtesy to the local community who are easily scared.
I’m reasonably low maintenance. I mean, who isn’t post-children?
However, as I get older there are certain things creeping into my regime that I hadn’t bargained for.
I now pluck a grey hair from my brow.
I cover the grey lash with extra mascara, or get it tinted in summer.
I de-fuzz the Tom Selleck tash which my peri-menopausal hormones have bequeathed me.
But yesterday, the first day of September, the 1st day of spring, I discovered my first grey hair. And it wasn’t on my head.
Oh.dear.lord. I was not prepared for this.
When I told The Saint he smirked and kindly proffered “Well, you might as well shave it all off now”. Mmm, NOT HELPING.
Once I had recovered my breathing. I thought about the future. Getting old, gracefully. Or NOT. What would Madonna do?
I envisage her having a “vagina styler” who suggests tints or merkins.
Sadly, I have no funds for such a person in my entourage.
Or maybe she is smooth and hairless? I have a huge fear of Brazilians – waxing, not the people – so this is not an option for me.
Then I was reminded of this fabulous poem by Jenny Joseph – Warning
And now, I know exactly what I shall do when the grey takes over down there.