Cue the advent of silver strands.
Horrors. Shrieks. No worries, I don't scream hysterically over every trivial silver strand I find. Probably would turn hoarse if I did so! At the moment I stand by the adage that striking one down would only bring five more to the funeral.
So I turn to hair dyes.
Maybe if I run really fast, she won't catch me!
Of course age, experience and maturity dictates that I stick to the more sedate colours of dishwater brown and blah black. No more electric blues and fiery reds in the near future. Wouldn't want anyone to mistake me for a crazed bleached blond gentleman dealing with a potential mid-life crisis!
At least that's what I presume the head hairstylist means since she practically snatched the bolder colour schemes away from my greedy little hands. Despite having shocking multi-coloured highlights on her own sleek mane, she tends to be a bit more conservative when it comes to me.
Paul : Maybe something red?
Hairstylist : Really ah? So scary wor that colour.
Paul : Think my hair is still black enough that it wouldn't make much of an impact anyhow.
Hairstylist : But doctor wor. Must look a bit professional loh.
Paul : So what would you suggest?
Hairstylist : A bit only la. Maybe dark dark red loh. Like this.
Paul : That's almost black.
Hairstylist : Ya loh!
Oh yes, the hairstylist was a one-time patient of mine. Obviously she doesn't want the shameful ignominy of being under the medical care of someone with improperly dyed hair. There goes my coiffure dreams of finding out if blondes actually have more fun.
After an hour or two of her vigorous efforts, she handed me a mirror with a near flourish. Voilà!
Frankly I was underwhelmed. Silver strands be gone but there's only a trace of red if I tilt my head just so to catch the light. Talk about hiding one's light under a bushel! Damn, I miss my coloured streaks. Maybe I'll nip down to the store for some temporary streaks and tips.