In the dappled light of my early morning shower I glance down at
my lady parts and get a nasty shock. A follicle has given out. It
seems I have one grey hair. I'd call it the Lone Ranger, but it
looks more like Tonto.
I feel like I've seen a ghost - the ghost of Fanny's future - and
it's scary. I tell myself it might be a trick of light or a simple
mistake, like the time I thought I was radioactive but it turned
out to be the Berocca I'd drunk earlier.
It's an ominous portent; a dark grey storm cloud hovering over my
otherwise youthful hoo-hoo. Soon it'll be awash with white
hairs.
If I'm lucky I'll suit a salt-and-pepper lady beard. It'll make my
'down there' look all 'rugged' and 'distinguished' - like George
Clooney. If I'm not, I'll just go straight to white, and one day
I'll look down and find Mr. Miyagi staring back at me. I'd "wax-on,
wax-off", but it's not really my thing.
I wouldn't mind but there's not a single grey hair on my head.
This hair is defying the natural order of things. I'm Dorian Grey.
Except it's not my portrait but my lady garden that's ageing at a
horrifying rate.
My first thought is, 'oh, pluck it'. I have to get straight to the
root of the problem. Then I remember my mum warning me that if you
pluck one grey hair it gets replaced by ten. So one grey hair is
worth ten in the bush. Think on.
I want to consult my girlfriend, but I feel a little ashamed. How
do I tell her my pelt is past its prime? Can I really keep her in
the dark, or rather keep it in the dark? I'll end up like the sad
bloke in the Just for Men advert - dyeing to cling onto to my pubic
youth.
I return to the bedroom in my towel resigned to reveal all. My
girlfriend is hanging out of the window pruning the wisteria below.
"Make sure you do it two or three buds from the base", I caution.
She pops her head back inside and says, "When did you get so
wise?"
"Funny you should ask..."
