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Granny Chic

I found a gray hair the other day. And then I found another. And another. And all of a sudden, I, at the age of 25, counted nine gray hairs total, peaking their way out of my dark brown lob (that’s my hairdresser’s slang for long bob and it makes me feel edgy as shit).

Finding the hairs was an experience not too dissimilar from finding a  trail of ants. You see one little guy, drunkenly making his way across your desk, and then...there are hundreds.

Perhaps it’s karma. I can only use the grandma, top-knot, gray hair emoji so many times before it starts to have physical effects.

Perhaps I need to eat more carrots or do Pinterest-y avocado, raw egg hair masks to restore my strands to their previous luster.

But I think the knitting is to blame. My outsides are matching their insides. It’s like my hair is saying, “Who are you kidding? Your spirit’s age is 74.”

So, if it is the knitting that’s turning me gray, I’ll take it. Granny chic, here I come.