If you read my essay on botox, you’ll know that I’m a little torn on the matter.
I don’t want botox (or filler, I didn’t really know the difference until someone explained it in the comments under my botox piece - thank you).
I also don’t want wrinkles. Not really. I don’t hate them but I preferred my face without them.
Except I didn’t really, because when I didn’t have them, I didn’t notice their absence and probably found something else to be concerned about.
Anyway.
For now, the wrinkles and lines will continue to decorate my face because I’m too scared, lazy and averse to spending money on chemicals to do anything about them.
But just as I started to come to terms with my stance on anti-ageing cosmetic procedures, I looked in a mirror leaning against a sunny window and saw…
My first grey hairs.
I checked multiple times because I’m not meant to be going grey until I’m at least 50 and yet I’m only 38.
I asked my husband if he could see them but he said no.
And then, a few days later, I pulled one of the fuckers out to hold it against something dark and properly check the colour and that wiry strand was a definite grey.
Well, white.
What did I do?
