I've said it before, but getting old kinda sucks.

Ok, so it has its perks too. I mean, I'm certainly wiser than I was 20 years ago. But the years haven't improved my balance or coordination. Not one bit. And so what if I know a lot more useless trivia than I did before? That's really only something I can drag out at parties, and at my age, I don't go to many parties. And while it's true, my skills at writing have definitely improved, did it really have to come at the expense of my hair? 

It's like I have a traitor in my midst. Fifty streaks of gray? Really? And the worst part of gray roots is the process of fixing them. And make no mistake about it...they must be fixed.

See, the thing is, if your hair feels old, the rest of you follows suit, and I'm too young to feel so old. So until my hair has conformed to the illusion of youth yet again, I refuse to allow any form of photographic evidence of my existence. And I have a live Spreecast coming up in a week or two. So I can only hide for so long.

This is why I convinced the hus...I mean imaginary dead president, to play chauffeur while I hit up the closest beauty supply place in a fifty mile radius so I could stock up on hair color supplies. What? I'm not paying someone else a hundred bucks to do what I can do for less than ten! I may be old, but I don't have dementia.

Then again, I may just be crazy for coloring my own hair. Hey, it's a messy job, but somebody has to do it!

Until the next time...I'll be bringing sexy back!