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| Me, 21-years-old, not realising what I'm getting myself into. |
"Oh dear Lord Jesus," I tell to my bathroom reflection and God above. "How long have you let this exist?"
As I thoroughly sweep through my black roots to eliminate the glowing minorities (I sadly find three more), I can't help but think 'This is it'.
I'm an adult.
As I approach my 27th birthday, I'm fiercely aware how long I've avoided referring to myself as an adult. I'm a pretender, a fake, an imposter. I'll never be part of that world, I used to tell myself.
Never mind the engagement ring on my finger, the house I own, the mortgage I now pay and my genuine interest in getting a shower dome. None of that meant I was a real adult.
However, a 17cm long albino white was the last strand of confirmation.
I look at myself, clean-faced with my tired naked eyes and permanent dark circles concealer struggles to hide. Standing in my bathroom, I have a humbling and melancholic experience. A reminder of morality. An awareness of the change ahead. And while I lay my head to rest on the same mattress I've slept on for 10 years, in the same room I've lived in for 25+ years, I look to reassurance. So I try to let my last thoughts be positive enough to comfort me to a sound sleep.
"Well, I have a good reason to colour my hair again."
It's the only silver lining I've discovered, though I'm sure plenty more exist, just like the hidden silver strands growing from my head too.
Happy birthday me, heh.
