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Happy birthday to me!

I usually postpone committing to any New Year’s resolutions until my birthday (which happens to be today), seeing them as more “beginning of next year of life” goals.  I’m a little behind on these this year, still awaiting resolution on the job front, waiting for limbo to end to pen my year in review/hopes for the new year’s thoughts.   So for now, I will offer significantly more trivial words.    Namely, I’m going to talk about my hair.
There are the changes we look forward to, those we dread, and those we outright refuse to accept.   Going grey is one of those things I currently refuse to accept.  I will be fine with having grey hair when I reach some appropriate age (an as yet to be determined number), but last night, on the eve of my 36th birthday, I refused to begin age 36 with grey hair.  Every time I cover them up—those wiry, determined little bastards—they seem to go undercover, recruit others and suddenly arrive back on my head with a larger army of vengeance.   
Not everything can (or should) be solved with a bottle, but grey hair is one of the things that can. 
So last night, I went on the attack and got to awake on my 36th birthday grey-free!  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I kind of wish I was the type of person who bravely sported the grey, proudly proclaiming my lack of vanity, but I am not that person.  I am weak.  I like looking “young” in the subjective way I’ve bought into about what young means.  I’m more than happy to be 36.  For one thing, I like the even numbered birthdays.  For another, I’m happier and happier with myself and life every year, so look forward to aging (well, certain aspects.  Achy joints do not delight me).  But grey, no way. 
I'm coming for you, grey hairs: say your prayers.  (note the oh-so-attractive white top that I use/abuse for these little hair coloring rituals)

Having thus conquered the signs of aging atop my head, I feel ready to take on this next year of life.  Or at least the next 8-10 weeks when the grey finds its way back.

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