Two days ago, I discovered odd-colored hairs after blow-drying my hair. Despite my advancing age and eventual decrepitude (yes, I have sort of decided to dislike being 31), they were not grey hairs. No. They were thick black hairs. Whose hair fucking does that?
I have, my entire life, not had dark hair (it is, however, naturally slightly darker blonde than I've kept it since 2003). I have certainly never had thick hair -- one hairdresser once described it as children's hair, and she was right.
But now, at the dawn of my eventual physical decline, I am growing thick, dark hair. I assume this is some sick and unfortunate precursor to going grey. The problem with dark hair, of course, is that I am extremely fair skinned and -- like my dad who has the dark hair with which I am, apparently, to be cursed in my thirties -- have blonde eyebrows.
Fine. You know what? Fuck it. I already learned that you can, indeed, dye your eyebrows. And I have always wanted to do something dramatic with my hair. My hair is thus on notice: you are being dyed. And soon. And it will be dark. This is what you get.