A Breath Before Sixty
I return from my hairdresser having had the last bits of colour chopped out. I’m now sporting a choppy, silver and pepper pot, topknot, not entirely dissimilar from my beloved dog.
My hair is grey.
I return from my hairdresser having had the last bits of colour chopped out. I’m now sporting a choppy, silver and pepper pot, topknot, not entirely dissimilar from my beloved dog.
I don’t fully understand the impulse to grow out the colour, which had me ditch the hair dye in April. I knew it was related to my sixtieth birthday, which is…
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