As I hurriedly rinsed the soap from my hands, a tiny little glint caught my attention. In a rare show of vanity, I glanced up at the mirror. I'm not one to actually check my appearance during the day because, really, what am I going to do? Comb my hair? Touch up my makeup? HAHAHAHAHA! No. I'm not going to do a thing. Why bother even looking?

I leaned closer, confused as to how there seemed to be exactly one strand of very blond hair, despite the fact that I desperately needed to touch up my blond highlights. "Weird," I thought.

Then I did a double-take. "No freakin way. Is that?"

My eyes grew wide as I ripped that one lonely hair out. I wasn't completely sure, but it seemed to be . . . white. Or gray. Not blond.

That was a year ago.

Guess what happens when you stop highlighting your hair, and decide to dye it even darker than your natural color?

Uh, yeah.

That one lonely maybe-white-maybe-gray-maybe-blond hair dared to show its face. And it brought friends. Like, a dozen or so of them. Not only are they peeping through where there should be dark brown, they are LOUD and they are PROUD.

The mother truckers are ruining my plans for not ever dying my hair again, what with their taunting and screaming and mocking of my eyes. They are all, "HA HA! You used to always be the youngest at everything, but now you're just an old woman! HA HA! See what happens when you have kids! HA HA! Hey! Look at me! I AM PROOF THAT YOU ARE OLD, BIOTCH!"

Flipplesnuckleshnart.

It's still better than having bird poop all over my head, though.