I found my first grey hair this week and actually wanted to cry. This is no laughing matter.
It wasn’t there on Monday and yet on Tuesday a whole strand of silver glinted at me in the mirror.
This is the turning point, isn’t it? This is the sign that I’m no longer a spring chicken, but a 30-something, still-not-married-and-with-no-children, woman.
So I did what any other rational woman in my position would have done – I went and bought a bottle of the brightest Fiery Red permanent hair dye and got to work.
Unlike in my 20s, when I would buy a subtle bottle of hair dye to blend in with my natural colour, this one is symbolic of my age.
Now I’m just another one of those women who dye their hair bright colours to appear younger and trendier. All because of that one silver strand.
Well, not quite. You see, I had a rather unfortunate incident this week when I decided to try out a kickboxing class.
I don’t know why really, I just thought it would be a cool thing to do in the evening with Matt.
So we went along for our free trial and were waiting for the earlier group of youngsters to finish chatting with the instructor.
Matt and I approached him, but there was a child in front of us who was finishing his conversation, so we just stood there patiently.
All of a sudden the instructor starts informing us of this child’s progress in the class. Said child was about 10.
I looked a little confused, but I’ve been so full of cold since I got back from our trip that I didn’t really have the energy to think anything of it.
That was until the child looked at Matt and I with disgust and the instructor laughed and said: ‘Oh sorry, I thought you were his parents.’
Aaaagggh! By now I was almost in tears and wanted to punch the instructor square on the nose.
But fortunately I realised where I was and that if I did I just wouldn’t stand a chance.
‘Do I look like someone who has a 10-year-old son?’ I asked Matt.
He replied: ‘Well, it is possible Cheryl.’
My youthful looks have clearly abandoned me.