Well I turned 24 a little while ago and didn't think much of it. It's not 21; it's not 30 . . . so what? But when I was washing my hands in the bathroom yesterday, I looked at myself in the mirror and sticking straight up in the middle of my part was a strong, wirey gray hair.
I tried to photograph it for you, but close-ups of hair follicles just don't look good for some reason.
So when I informed Johnny of this, he laughed at me (a direct quote would have been, "HA HA") and said he would pay for me to go get my hair dyed. Then he kept talking about how they should give him a bunch of before and after shots to chose from and how I should try red or better yet blonde.
It's a good thing that he was all the way in Maryland with the army so that he didn't have to experience my pregnant wrath . . . which most likely consists of complaining how bad things smell.
(Can you find him in the picture?)
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