The next time that you see me I will be grey.
Of course I mean my hair. It’s no longer soft and chestnut brown, but grey.
Since you last saw me, since I locked my door in March, I’ve become old.
My eyebrows now resemble knots of May, tangled and unkempt.
My laughter-lines have settled in place and must now be honestly described as crows’-feet, (unless you wish to, cruelly, call them wrinkles!).
I have turned from, “Surely you’re not 60” to “She must be more than 60” overnight.
OK, not quite overnight, but in three months.
I know the woman in the bathroom mirror, but I wish I didn’t. I liked the old me. I was vain.
Will I colour my hair? No, the risk of discovery is too great. One missed appointment, one failed home dye and the secret would be out.
I will just embrace my new granniness.
But please, when you see me, don’t ask me why I stopped dying my hair because, although you won’t believe this, I didn’t need to – until now.
Bridget is a Postgraduate student, grandmother and children's author.
