“there is only one cure for gray hair. it was invented by a frenchman. it is called the guillotine.” // p.g. wodehouse
if it would please me, i’d be perfectly fine with the gray hair that has begun to frame my face – sprung at my temples, at the nape of my neck – and like a dim light luring me toward middle-age; a handful at the crown.
unfortunately, it does not please me – in fact, it give me a right grimace. i think perhaps if i had hair such as the women featured below, i’d be all right with it. these women, after all, are stunning, sophisticated, well-worn in their boots and in their lives, and their hair shimmers like silver in the sunlight. my hair however, would i let it grow in without the assistance of a very fine colourist, would frighten and bemuse – as my hair would look closer to that of medusa, yet instead of snakes – it would be a frizzy, tangled cloud of curly, stone coloured hair. and if i could prove to you that aging does not, in fact, bother me – i would certainly have to admit that perhaps, in some quiet, dark corner of my mind – i’m not so keen on the idea, and it’s showing proof right there, on the top of my very head.
→ source : a young, very young model – a photo that depressed and impressed me, via pinterest