Who knew that overnight, those dormant grey hair follicles would take up arms and spring into life, more wiry and stubborn than my existing lifeless locks, and with no real hope of ever fitting in; unlike Helen’s.
And that I’d suddenly become a walking advertisement for being ‘bloody old’ and ‘letting myself go’, unlike Helen, who has matured like a fine vintage wine.
And whereas in my salad days I could get away with an eight weekly trip to the hairdressers for my camouflage of youthful highlights, it has now become a five weekly trauma, to avoid the tell tale signs of senescence.
An expensive luxury, that forces me into gridlocked conversation with a twenty-year-old coiffeuse, enquiring about the plans that I don’t have that night, while I sit and pretend that her small talk is brain taxing. I bet Helen still has plans.
The roots do not lie, and although I can admit that Helen Mirren works a hoary mane, I have come to the realisation that I’ll never age as gracefully. Maybe beauty does come from within, after all.