Once in a great while I realize that I have ceased to be twenty years old. It is on those days, like today, for instance, I dye my hair.
It doesn't take away the lines in my once-smooth face or firm up the skin that hangs like bat wings from the underside of my arms. However, it does help me to better pretend that age is just a number. It's hard to pretend when your roots are white as the driven snow...or gray as dirty slush.
This season we have a lovely reddish-brown, which compliments my paper-white skin. I look like a vampire without the teeth. Thankfully, it fades with time to my almost natural color of mousy brown.
When I can see (from the roots) that the whole shebang has indeed turned totally gray, I will give up and let my true colors show. Until then, humor me. Let me go on in my delusion of youth. Let me be the only twenty-year-old grandmother you know.
OK, twenty-FIVE-year old grandmother.
I'm not one to split hairs. :)