A recent hair count conducted by Julie has revealed that I now have 38 gray hairs. This is far more than the 2 or 3 I counted not a year ago. These findings lead me to believe that living with Julie is aging me at an alarming rate! This may sound crazy but I secretly believe that she is keeping me around to steal my youth, much like in "The Picture of Dorian Grey". By the time my annual "Photo Shoot by the Sea" comes next month I'm bound to look like some withered old geezer.
I suppose all I can do now its hope. Hope that I will grow a full head of salt & pepper locks and become the middle aged sex symbol I looked up to as a child. Freshmen year of high school I tried to dye my hair gray. It was my Richard Gere-esk form of teenage rebellion. I thought that perhaps it would make me look distinguished. At least it would make me look gentlemanly enough so they would stop pestering me about an ID whenever I tried to go to my old hangout Gossip.
Unfortunately the woman I turned to to help me in my transformation told me that they didn't make any such hair coloring. Her attempt to grant my wish consisted of bleaching my hair to baby chick yellow, and after I saw myself as the cartoon version of James Van Der Beek, I knew that this was not going to end well. She then turned my hair into a sort of metallic black, which ultimately took on an unexpected purple tint. Fortunately at that moment in my social life I was seen somewhat of a hip trendsetter.... *coughs* no one really seemed to take notice.
As I draw nearer to my lifelong goal I find myself at a pass, do I shun Julie for performing such superficial witchcraft on me, or thank her for giving me that which I have pined for my whole life. On second thought, I'll just let her go along for it. The reaction I get from all the neighborhood cougars should be punishment enough.
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