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…